get fighted! get fighted! (inspired by: donkey punch/sucker punch, the beltsville crucible, alexisonfire, and night driving)

today there is no such thing as apology.
when your friend fucks up, you don't bother
beating him into the floor — it just leaves more work
for the maid who has to clean him off the tiles.
when he does a bad take,
the guitarist doesn't go home, because he's feeling all right
and he's got it in him to play it again.
when they're laughed at in the streets,
the kids don't go out and buy new clothes.
they roll with the punches and come back again tomorrow.
and when they cross the road,
the mice tell themselves to just close their eyes
and run.

one five six four (or: tl;dc)

i'm sick and tired of all your shit
you're a fucking four-chord wonder, baby,
you'll let anyone use you,
and maybe you sound a little different each time,
but it always feels the same
and it's easy to tell when you're faking your excitement.
i can't wait til it stops being fun altogether.

my name is christian and you better not wear it out

i'm the sinner amongst the saints alive
don't tell me to fucking swallow my pride,
because i've been there, done that,
all it did was knock my teeth back
deep in my throat where the whiskey goes
when i get so drunk i can't stand up
and i really couldn't give a fuck
because you burned me up and let me down
and i'm burning down this fucked-up town

so just go back to your church and preach
against serenades or sodomy
whatever the topic of the day may be
because i won't be there to hear it.
i'll be throwing molotov cocktails
through your windows late at night
and i'll be listening to the plainclothes soldiers
yelling "don't give up the fight!"

and after the riot when i'm still wide awake
you might find me crying in the bathroom
stunned and disillusioned at how pathetic this shit is
but i can do whatever i goddamn want to do
'cause it won't be long before you're calling my name
and trust me when i say i'm not fucking around
i might be crying in the bathroom all alone
but when the time comes, i'll kick this fucking door down

because i know i'm a bleeder but i'm not the only one
i am nuclear america's prodigal son

help

i wish that when my birthday rolls around
the candles don't turn to sparks
to ignite the gasoline in my car
so i can drive forty miles away
into the arms of other people
who only care about themselves too

i hope you're happy, this one's a true story

savez-vous qu'est-ce qui se passe sur cette promenade?

tonight my lungs ache for eternal divorce
and all my excuses have run their course
but my frantic senses refuse to ignore
the mangled edges of the hungry dance floor

an on-and-off couple are grasping for words
deciding whether or not they want to get hurt
a boy and a girl and a tangle of limbs
i'm jealous of her, not so much of him

but i'm a kid and a coward and i'd rather not fight
because the air seems harder to breathe tonight
i can see my friendships breaking from far away
and everyone keeps asking me if i'm okay

titles go on spines

i'll see where giving up takes me

leagues below me ten thousand dead kings
open their hands and the asphalt sings and the
violence from some irrelevant war
erodes my impulse to ask for more of the

years i spent hating these dreams in my head
oceans of death and uncomfortable beds
unable to sleep but i can see the edges of

angels to catch me if tonight i break and i'm
lonely and sobered but wide awake i'm
lonely and sobered but wide awake

"he hears children's voices on the hills in the forest approaching quickly"

(note: i stole a bunch of lyrics for this)

i've been watching that smile slip off your face
i can't speak because deep down i wish i was laughing

imagining some golden-eyed boy talking at me
saying brightly i can't break free

my legs are still shaking and i'm not even asleep yet
there is no speech left

i can deny it by saying everything backwards and i mean it
but i'm still tangled up and i can't break free

do not wrap it around your head
that is not what microphones are for

but it's not just a song
no, it's definitely not just a song

it's revenge for all the giants you killed
yelling bring it on, bring it on, let's tear these motherfuckers apart

foaming at the mouth and living for their last
their dying and planet-sized breath

i know, i've been warned
but i'll never cut the cord that strangles my head

saturday's child works hard for his living (or: for callum innes)

i scrabbled my way out onto the streets again
thought i was summat special cause i was an ex-con
but it didn't take me long to figure out that
meeting new people is dangerous fuckin work
and it's a lot safer to just stay in the car

i don't run as fast as i'd like, y'see
and it doesn't matter i've gotten used to it
i don't fuckin like the taste of blood in my mouth
(although i order a drink and a chaser or two
and everything drifts out of focus, as nice as)

and you know
i don't mind kicking the shit out of lying bastards
and you know
i can take a beating with the best of em
but nowt changes the fact that i'm just a dog amongst dogs

i'm just a fuckin coward

enterprising

i know i may be losing control right now
but my anxiety is far too quiet.
i glance at myself in the mirror and it looks like rain.

only when i can see the edges of my sight
slicing up the treeline
does the anxiety flare up, unreasonable,

and on the radio someone's talking about bombs
and no one else is speaking to me
and i don't know my own family

where did everyone go?

this is my home

i'm sick of all this domestic pain
and the unjust burden on the weary saints
and i'll never let anyone say to me
that it's easy holding on to your integrity

'cause the people are yellin' and the flags are burnin'
and the blood is flowin' and my stomach's turnin'
and i'm just afraid that one day i'll find
i've got too much whiskey and not enough rye

tl;dr

maybe you think you have no spare time
and that you must take action now
but i'll only believe you when you tell me
exactly what juggernaut of an action you took
that used up all your spare time

matt skiba and his sunglasses (or: help, i'm obsessed with a 33-year-old madman)

(note: in case you were going to comment on how good the shit in italics was, that's actually lyrics from some of matt's alk3 songs. some of the shit not in italics is also lyrics from matt's alk3 songs.)

i feel like this place is bleeding like
it's spilling out of the walls and onto the floor

i wish you would come down here
pull a billie joe armstrong and
kiss me on the mouth
(fine time to fake a seizure.
feel your lips on mine — you're saving me)

and when you told us you'd drunk a bit too much
(sorry i'm late. i was out spoiling my liver.
i couldn't wait. the sun was up
for far too long today.)
all i did was shake my head and laugh because
we both know you're pitiful
(so fuckin' pitiful)

but you smile so manically as you sing about hell
(home sweet home is chicago, illinois, motherfuckers!)
and sometimes i feel like you're mocking me
your shining eyes and your angel face
(with stolen wings and evil ways
straight down south to the pearly gates)

so cool you wear other people's sunglasses inside
and the strawberry frames, they flatter your face
but only because you're so fucking famous
(you're living young and dying fast)
and i can see it in the way you laugh
at the boys and the girls who can't believe
that they're
this
close

goading us like serial killers from forty years ago
(you scared us all to death. if they revive us
just sit there. just smile, dear.)
as we rage and shove and scream and sing
you took us hostage and you're making your demands
and i'm pretty sure we're meeting them but
we're still cutting off our own fingers one by one
just to show you so maybe you will meet our eyes
and our hearts will stop
but matt:

do these shows tend to leave you with a hole in your chest?
at the end of the day, are you fucked up and numb?
can you remember the last time you felt this comatose?
would Christ himself cringe at the sight of your scars?

and i know how you feel about fire but
i've got a better question:
could this be love?

if you're ever in the bath and you find yourself
in need of a radio, just let me know.
i'm plugged in and ready to fall.



mr. skiba, you were the last good thing i ever saw

picture is unrelated

i can't help but stare at your champagne hair
and your teeth are cut so clean,
and your lips, they're so severe, my dear,
but your eyes are so unseen.

strange family

i'm really no one's father but i have three sons
and i would be content to stay in their orbit

we're always wired for overenthusiasm
although with the first it's hard to tell,
because the signals transmit through two
millimeters of glass and he smiles just as easy
if a little quieter. but i should warn you that
even if he seems like he's drifting toward a
different universe, i have no doubt he
will come around.

a lot of the time i'm afraid to do stuff
that i'm not sure of and honestly,
the second is sort of the same way
but give him enough encouragement and
he'll take the leap that always stops
me in my tracks. sometimes i wish he
would remember he's a good kid and i hope he
will because look at his friends.

it's kind of strange having lived this long
because i feel so tired all the time but
the third one never ever gets tired.
he laughs at the dark stuff and makes
friends with monsters and he takes a
lot of abuse but he knows his friends,
and i'm pretty sure i've got him down
pat because i've never seen him sad.

i'm really no one's father but i have three sons
and i would be content to stay in their orbit
but a black hole is pulling me lightyears into
the future.