The Lowest Of The Low - Concave lyrics

Concave...theatre of the absurd. Like a heat wave...Eighth Street and Twenty-Third. Feeling unframed...dripping down the Chelsea steps. Tasting your name crushed up against my lips In the cool, blue half-light of the car-park lamplight. Strange pull...the tyranny of the divine. Cool and painful shivers up and down my spine. A new distraction...bumping up against the dark. In fits of pa**ion...twisting like Joan of Arc In the white-hot pure flame of a wide-eyed clear haze. You're sloppy deep in throught But there's so much nothing to do. Why don't we go get lost In the afternoon? And the sky struggles to be born, All pink and liminal. Bleeding, half alive, like an animal. And you brush your chesnut hair And smile wide as the sky, Like the concave of your eyes. And the scent...upon your warm orange skin's glow...in the graveyard bedclothes. Turn the lock on the door. Pull the cord from the phone.