Fugitive Air

I do wrong, strictly speaking, just for myself
Because it makes me feel like a real man
To hold hegemony over my business
And I, I refuse to be abused by the milieu of wistful decay
Besides, I’m used to all of my scruples deserting me
Like they’ve done today
The lady on the block hunched over on the stool
With her withered old titty out
Saying «I've been rolled so many times
It’s just feeding the pigeons»
Now her grandson swings a living rabbit by the leg
While his mother’s playing two wooden flutes
I went to repo some fugitive air
To escape the street’s vagary aesthetic
Has anybody here seen my old friend Blob?
Oh, has anybody seen where he’s gone?
What he thinks I owe him is his former life but
How can I unmake someone else’s mistakes?
I guess I was his antihero, the bitter word on his lips
I hope I never feel a terror like when you discovered your autonomy had flipped
I feel like I possess only the bad aspects of invisibility
But none of the good ones
Are we walking mausoleums of scented rotting flesh?
Mother always liked you best
Liked your teeth upon her breasts
They removed the oils from the eyes of street cats
Through some shitty witchcraft
And apply it to their brows and genitalia
I had no idea how deeply I wounded you
But I don’t need no forgiveness
And no level of contrition will ever do