Pedestrian - Dead Beats (Generation of) lyrics

The pedestrian: Neither a protest song nor an endorsement Generation of dead beats we headspin on the tombstone of ginsberg Enduring the ban*lity of a sober burroughs for so long As sole pours out a bottle of evian for the disembodied and gin for hemmingway We without impetus born through a trap door into this history The universe shrinks and our conception of it doesn't fit anymore An electric candle burns bedside in a remorseful elegy for elanor rigby And her middle-aged daughters A wedding gypsy band bangs out a domestic lament on antique ukulele And petrified elk bones A flower on a guitar withers wantonly hippie anthems Entangled within broken strings and baez tunes Reliving those moments otherwise left alone Throughout these gutted crates and creative gutters Woodstock burns as we windmill on the wasteland of eliot My windblown voiceprint on the ruins and verandahs Around imitation roman columns at the outpost of mediocre Where mid-level administration is making it the romanticized slacker In all threadbare elegance questioning the eternal amid echoes like tendrils Might i be the only one here in the roll call of minor set backs and major failures? A dim yes faint no and a resonating maybe saluting the first flag visible Through the settling dust in the setting dusk embroidering my uniform of d**hless song I whistle woman with the curviest of drums would be libertine But my wounds are literate so i make s*ut of it all With a skewed perspective and scurrilous adjectives It's like lysergic acid verses venomous incantations Over influenced of our tongues Look at me growl mouthful of venison and perennial yawn When i wake up i may find it all gone My cheaply inked innocence is indeed wearing thin And being holed up in a motel with a case of whiskey And a typewriter is not a vision quest Dose one: Oh and actors of slightest idea left stuffing in lockers To make their walk home short and nightmares the kind of crap Their kids couldn't eat off tv with hook hands and poked holes for eyeballs Nowhere to go by but the canary It's minimum wage in all out war or hide And work played to the wheeze of a dead beat in autumn Of no man is island and everything has already been done once The pedestrian: Somebody get me a hero and i'll author a tragedy Yet murder in the theatre on an idle afternoon where duchamp And d**h meet and don't create but do play chess in the park Until the curators and clerics recede to their quarters Heritics in the paradise of fitzgerald And in the alleys of 'frisco Our recurrent tourist can only begin to think Picturesque of more distantly postcard Once a cipher rat, now i'm looking for a publisher of dead beatitudes And parables as absurd as the world we've woven for ourselves Out of worn down wonderment and wormwood Rewriting the masterpieces word by word Listen carefully, this song's an empty shell on the shore of the worthless ones My stab at simplifying beyond the hybrid of a smiling sambo and stony buster keaton Phantoms in black face dance provocatively Around bundles of fanon's psycho colonial tomes Oh it's as obvious as i get without hollering "f** my father" In double time freebasing placebos in a corporate experiment I've seen some of our most brilliant minds Corrupted by boredom and booze like sixtoo howls But psyche sh** stained and incoherent I'm a cycle myself still chasing the aesthetic With a hellhound on my trail and a rent bill in his mouth Maybe i'll just make a living out of question marks It's the recovering junkie poet slash alcoholic novelist part of us all Any number of crossroads for yonder children of divorce and bankruptcy court Hardly a great depression. we're all spoiled and mildy neurotic By day this middle finger is a white flag Signifying our apathetic middle-cla** course Look at me roar, jaw jammed with raw flesh and perennial yawn When i wake up, i may find it all gone Wondering if the gla** just half is in an empty world By now dylan's harmonica's museum bound soundtrack To a bank commercial they'll bury you in the suburbs With car keys and cell phones warmed over d**h in prefab dream homes and bingo on sundays They'll forget you in the ghetto banging on your chest To hear the gold rattle in your gums This pointlessness pulses through my dearth of faith Pointless in an imperfect circle without center Each of us hypocrite preachers without flocks Every generation is lost and makes songs out of it But ours exiled from the search