First Name / Last Name Lyrics            The Reflecting Skin

Serve to Kill
I took the A train up to Harlem, tried to start a fight with Jorge and his friends. Got my ass kicked down to Central Park, woke up and it was time for work again. Now I’m bleeding from my head like I was bleeding from my heart for weeks. These days, it seems that that which does not make me stronger only serves to kill me. I would give my kingdom for a lightning bolt to throw. Sitting in my room and in a righteous rage, I grabbed a hammer, smashed out all my windows. And someone cut the power line, now, baby I’m so fuckin’ happy I could scream. These days, it seems that that which does not make me stronger only serves to kill me. You got the guy on the corner, talking shit and shooting dice, he’s got rigor mortis, gout the clap and gonorrhea and lice. He plays guitar in the subway to the voices in his head and he’ll have plenty of time left for pining over you when he’s dead. I took the F train out to Coney Island, passed out drunk and woke up on the beach. Watched Bjork, rode the Cyclone, grabbed a beer and had a bite to eat. Now I’m peeling like a lobster, knew I should’ve packed my SPF 15. These days, it seems that that which does not make me stronger only serves to kill me. I saw you in a dream, you was forty-somethin,’ bitchin’ at your man. How he’s always movin’ backward, he ain’t ever trying to do the best he can. I was in the corner, I was old and drunk and losing all my teeth. These days, it seems that that which does not make me stronger only serves to kill me. Got the girl at the party, she’s got glowsticks in her hands. She’s trying to keep the beat alive but, baby, she don’t understand; when every pill’s been taken and the colors turn to red, she’ll have plenty of time left for pining over you when she’s dead. Now, Daddy’s out in California, sayin’ prayers and trying to get to heaven. Momma’s back in Detroit City, all fucked up and suckin’ on a lemon. Me, I’m stuck in Jersey, I got a bad case of blanket apathy. These days, it seems that that which does not make me stronger only serves to kill me.

Ash Wednesday
It’s midnite in New Jersey, I’m beating steps back to Kennedy. The cold wind blows around me, but I don’t feel a thing: I’m already dead. I’m staring at the ceiling, can’t keep my head from reeling. I feel just like Jim Croce, singing “this is not my home.” New York is not my home. And I can still feel the lump on the side of my head where, struck with remorse, I tried to beat myself to death. And I can’t pick up my guitar without trying to make you love me again. You’re a million miles away. I burned your picture weeks ago. Now every single day’s spent cold and boneless, home alone, waiting by the phone. I got a full head every morning, I got a clear head every night. My only friends are Heinekens. The days are none too bright. I been waiting for the light. And I can still feel the lump on the side of my head where, struck with remorse, I tried to beat myself to death. And I can’t pick up my guitar without trying to make you love me again. I am a man. I am a dreaming man. I am dreaming of not being kicked to the ground again. I am alive, but I am falling down. I can’t even think of any words that rhyme with falling down. It’s midnite in New Jersey, I’m beating steps back to Kennedy, and if you asked me twice, I’d say, “This whole goddamn city can sink in to the sea, for all I care right now.” And I can still feel the lump on the side of my head where, struck with remorse, I tried to beat myself to death. And I can’t pick up my guitar without trying to make me love you again.

Keith Richards
Well, it rained like hell in the City last night, and the leaves fell down today. My head is a radio station that won’t take off. I am standing on the corner, trying to do my very best Keith Richards, who’s doing his best Nick Drake, doing his very best impression of me. Play guitar, stop singing along. There’s a hole in my head where the pictures of you have gone and, try as I might, I cannot shake the feeling that my life is a joke gone wrong. Play guitar, stop singing along. There’s a mighty fine line between a love affair and a car crash. There’s a great divide between you and I these days. And I wouldn’t set foot in Toledo again if you paid me. Bang my head against the wall, trying to find your earthly remains. Play guitar, stop singing along. There’s a hole in my head where the pictures of you have gone and, try as I might, I cannot shake the feeling that my life is a joke gone wrong. Play guitar, stop singing along. There’s a streetlight, there’s a firefight, there’s a bottle in every hand. There’s a message on the window, there’s a line drawn in the sand, and I am begging you, I am begging you, “Baby, please don’t leave your man.” And I am holding my breath ‘til my heart starts beating again. I can see my breath on this February New Jersey morning. I can hear the bagpipes ringing in the Ides of March. I can see you shaking your head without moving a muscle. I can hear your voice but I can’t remember your name. Play guitar, stop singing along. There’s a hole in my head where the pictures of you have gone and, try as I might, I cannot shake the feeling that my life is a joke gone wrong. Play guitar, stop singing along.
Missing You and Wishing You Were Here
You can almost see the sunshine, if you lean back far enough. 112 stinks to Heaven, like it was sent from God above. I got four stone walls for curtains. I got a ringing in my ear. The shake of your hips, and your blue-green eyes, have got me missing you and wishing you were here. We could hang out in the laundry room every single day. They got an A/C, they got a Coke machine, and we could waste the summer away. If you would make some sandwiches then, baby, I would go and get some beers. The shake of your hips, and your blue green eyes, have got me missing you and wishing you were here. Location matters the most. I’ll be Ghost Rider, you be the Ghost of a Dog, set afire by the City lights. It’s those City lights that got me burning for your love. Last night, I finally gave up. I was neither here nor there. I thought that, “If I can’t make it here, I can’t make it anywhere.” I wake up shaking every morning, I’ve been shaking all year. The shake of your hips, and your blue green eyes, have got me missing you and wishing you were here.

Call of the Wreckin’ Ball
Once in a while, the colors go out of my eyes, and I start makin’ lists, shakin’ fists, fuckin’ up again. “It’s time,” I said to your back, but you’re not listening. So I turn, tail tucked between my legs, and just walk away. And I’m lying awake in my hospital room, listen to the call of the wreckin’ ball. You’re talking to a man who’s been pushed one too many times. A man who’s been pushed one too many goddamn times. I’ve seen every good friend that I had turn his back on me, and had ten thousand dreams of you still lying next to me. And I’m lying awake in my hospital room, listen to the call of the wreckin’ ball. Now I’m face down and freezing, waiting for somebody new. And, as the walls come tumbling down, so does my heart. Now every last promise we made has been thrown away, and every “I love you” that we said was just fuckin’ lies. And I’m lying awake in my hospital room, listen to the call of the wreckin’ ball.

To Heaven
You are everything in the world to me, and several other things that sound poetic when you whisper them. And I cannot seem to get you off my mind. I have never been good at drawing lines. “It’s just a small incision,” you said. “You can eat around the part of me that you can’t stand.” I’ve got umbrellas on the brain, I’ve got you for the rain, and I will take these broken wings and learn to fly to heaven. When you get back from the hospital, would you let me in your life or would you leave me all alone again? I have fallen on my ass in love with you…what else did you expect me to do? “It’s just a small incision,” you said. “You can eat around the part of me that you can’t stand.” I’ve got umbrellas on the brain, I’ve got you for the rain, and I will take these broken wings and learn to fly to heaven. You are trouble, and you have a way of catching up to me no matter what company I keep. I am spreading wings, gonna leave for a while. You can be whatever, I don’t mind, you’ll be far away. These days, I’m smiling all the time, but I’m only smiling ‘cause I’ve finally realized I’m better off alone. I cried every day since you died, and the mattress still smells like you tonight. Annalee, you were the best part of my life. Annalee, you were the color and the light. “It’s just a small incision,” you said. “You can eat around the part of me that you can’t stand.” I’ve got umbrellas on the brain, and I’ve got you for the rain, and I will take these broken wings and learn to fly to heaven.

Soft Spot
For lyrics to “Soft Spot,” send $375 money order or well-concealed cash to:
Brook Pridemore
Attn: Volcano Insurance
118 W. 112th St. #3A
New York, NY 10026

The Last Time
The last time I saw you, you was crashin’ cars, and I was on the radio, watching shooting stars. Now I can feel the sheet rolling over my eyes, just like the last time.

Teeth
Standing beside myself, watching me drop the ball again. You are hopelessly content, I am choking to death. We were sitting on the bench, where the Green Top used to be, waiting on a message from her majesty, holding tight to one another’s hands, intermittently. And I am standing on the beach where I sleep, trying to wash the smell of you off my teeth. I am writing it down while you bleed, and I am try to remember to breathe. You said, “I wish my life were exciting enough to be filmed in real time.” But you walk home the same way every day: past the burned-out lights of the Trust Company. And I am writing my songs on the ripped out pages of Blender magazine, playing my guitar through a matchbox amp and beer-soaked coterie, losing every thought like I lose my mind when you drop the apathy that you hold so well. And I am standing on the beach where I sleep, trying to wash the smell of you from my teeth. I am writing it down while you bleed, and I am try to remember to breathe. I know it’s only my soul, but I like it. I sold my heart and body in the Garden State today. I got a postcard from an old-time donut shop in Chicago that says, “I love you, I need you, and baby, I would die for you.” And I’m writing my thoughts on the ripped-out pages of Blender magazine, playing my guitar through a matchbox amp and beer-soaked coterie, losing every thought like I lose my mind when you drop the apathy that you hold so well. And I am standing on the beach where I sleep, trying to wash the smell of you from my teeth. I am writing it down while you bleed, and I am try to remember to breathe.

Get Back
It’s 7:30 and the office is a ghost town, so whatever happened to the Eddie I used to know? You got so good at pretending the good times were never ending. You were a cartographer, location meant the most to ya, and I was stuck somewhere in the west village, staring at the sun, wondering where it all went wrong. If you every left, I wouldn’t have reason number one to get back to you. You look so dapper in your trench coat and your pork pie hat. You know, I’ve always wanted to be like that. While you were out playing tic-tac-toe, I was passed out by the window. You were a photographer, appearance meant the most to ya, and I was sittin’ stupid on the front porch, gone crazy, round the bend, wonderin’ where the sidewalk ends. If you ever left, I wouldn’t have reason number one to get back to you. A gallon bottle full of beer cans and a bonsai tree. That’s all you’ve got left to show for your year at sea. Tell me the reason that love is a lie, while I am silently crying. You were a seismographer, I was all shook up for ya, and you were like a cool breeze, blowin’ cross the warm New Jersey shore, making me your whore, and you’re rock solid, proud to be the local social queen. You’re an oceanographer, obsessed with sand and water. Me, I’m stuck somewhere up on City Island, where the train don’t go. I was destroyed by rock n’ roll, and you’re out to sea, and I ain’t got reason number one to get back to you.

Fear of Everything (I’ll Find a Way to Make You Smile)
I woke up this morning and placed my seven thousandth bet on disappointment. I was lost, I was found. I was floating, barely breathing, seven inches from the ground. And there’s no magic in the air tonight. There is madness, there is madness, I have warned you there is madness behind my eyes. A fear of losing, a fear of trying. A fear of living, and a fear of dying. I’ve got a fear of everything. There’s no magic in the air tonight. That’s just the endless possibility. That’s just the space between you and me. I drove back to Chicago, back when I still had a car, to forget about my life for a while. Got my headphones, and Johnny Cash. At ninety-seven miles per hour, I’ll find a way, I’ll find a way to make you smile. There’s no magic in the air tonight, and I am almost past the point of letting go. I thought that you should know. I woke up this morning and placed my seven thousandth bet that I’ll find a way, I’ll find a way to make you smile.

The Reflecting Skin Lyrics