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​Pyro Vs. Poison Cat (Skyscraper, NY)

This song is by Cannonball Statman and appears on the album Your Hair (2014).

I've already got this problem, and it's starting to freak me out.
You know, I live inside the doughnut store, and she lives on the seventh floor.
If I jump out the window, will I go up or down?
And if she doesn't like me, will she cut off my legs?
It seems like a joke, but it's not a joke.
People say they worry about me, but I think they want me dead.
I try to be myself, but I feel like someone else.
Am I breaking the wall with my forehead for Jesus or Lucifer? Ah!

I've already got this burden, and I'm already six feet tall.
Soon I'll be taller than the ceiling, and the landlord will kick me out.
He plays Dorian modes, smokes cigarettes, and he castrates the town.
But with a solid state amp, mutilated guitar, and some rage on a stage,
I'll burn New York City to the ground. (Arf, arf!)
Tried to get out of the mirror, 'cause I always look the same,
And I tried to stop looking into your room, inside my dreams,
And I tried to stop talking to your face, and I'm spitting on your face,
And the Winter is burning me.

The center of the Earth is where I'm from, and I live there.
It's my home. Fire shoots out from my skin, but every now and then,
When you'll let me in, I'll visit the ocean in the sky above my head.
I'll visit the ocean, and I'll dive in.

End of the year threw me in the air.
But by next Fall, I'll fall just like all the others.
End of the year sent a current through my hair.
By next Fall, I'll fall all the way, a bullet through the ground.
And if I don't fall further than the others, I won't have a roof over my head.
I'll never see the moon again. And I'll drown, and I can't move.

This weird world is rewiring me to speak and think like a human man.
To walk the streets like a citizen. And talk about the weather, whenever I can.
Did I tell ya? We found an alien, outside of Niagara, on the way to Odessa.
She stood outside, smoking an e-cigarette, drilling silence and words into the tip of my head.
"Don't go anywhere! Stay scared! You can't breathe! Man, you don't even want to! Think about it!"

I felt a sensation of billions of blood cells, magic spells, spirit, and vibrations of lust,
From some four dozen post-death meatball heroes.
It was sinister and strange, drove me to the edge,
From a metal to a magnet, and then a black hole.
And here comes some asshole, in the mouth of the room,
With the head of a lion, and the heart of a mosquito,
Mourning the severing of his gut, with a burp of bourbon, and a tragic scream!
"Don't go anywhere! Stay scared! You can't breathe! And I don't even want to! What about you?!"

Sometimes, I must admit, I hear a voice calling me from afar.
I can't comprehend the words, but the message is clear, and it penetrates me like a chainsaw.
I know what it means, and I know what to do. Yet I cower in the temporary warmth of the pack.
When will I start running?
When will I run from the pack, to that dissonant shriek of a freak,
Who howls alone in Riverside Park?
And upon my arrival, in that wild, uncharted volume,
Whatever will I do?
Will I erase these questions from my mind?

You can't break the ground in manic town, but you can smell the suicide. Ah!
I had somewhere to go, and I ended up at the TPM show.
There's absolutely nothing that stitches can't sew.
Oh, whoa-oh-oh. Dropped all my shit, in a puddle of spit in Tompkins Square.
Took it back, bolted off like a poison cat, straight into the arms of the electric chair.
Born in the shadow of Moloch, it was written on my forehead.
Taken by the hand of the quicksand. Fell in, and never got out.
Snakes and spiders in my legs, they're not going away.
I hear sirens and screams from the rooftop, and I feel better.
Tonight, I'm gonna die, in front of your eyes.
I've got nothing better to do.
The train station's closed, and the landlord doesn't know,
And I love you.

At night in Skyscraper, New York, a bullet rings through the air.
Through landscapes of dirt, and panoramas of lazy eyes.
There is something else behind these walls, and doors leading into breakfast.
At night in Skyscraper, New York.

A party emerges in Skyscraper, New York. The lonely club singer becomes physically demented.
But the man behind the wall was dying in room, with saturated blues and cigarette smokin'
Illuminated by black and white camera flashes from photographers in tuxedos.
At night in Skyscraper, New York.

A hospital in Skyscraper, New York is fluorescent greens and whitened walls.
A man in a gown loses all character inside of him at the sight of a syringe,
But manages to remain calm, in front of doctors,
Campaigning for the next parade of infants to march in their doors.
At night in Skyscraper, New York.

He died on the street last night, in Skyscraper, New York,
Fueled by the messages on the billboards, starring signs of the apocalypse,
And silver screen dreams of a last chance at the road to fame,
Through the back entrance at the theater, where the rocket ship went off.
And the ashes of Hi8 video tapes of the crash sent everyone back to bed.
A memorable moment in the days of looking out the window into a golden sky.
He was no more, his soul sinking into the stained cement.
The raindrops in the mud. The friends with mouths wide open.
The bluest sky from the oceans of his entire life.
At night in Skyscraper, New York.

He had made an acquaintance, through vast networks of people,
Who did things, which sounded like things they'd done before,
Stared into the mirror, pulled out his teeth, one by one,
Bought into the trap of his previous self, lost control of his own better judgement,
His own best interest!

At night in Skyscraper, New York, people never change.
They're stuck inside, prisoners to the silver screen deja vu,
Or the gold, which fuels madness and obsession, in the city.
At night in Skyscraper, New York.

(Thanks, everyone!)