Look at Me

from Den of Maniacs by Dan Jacob Wallace

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lyrics

hey you there look at me
tell me tell me help me tell me what you see
am i the same man i used to be?
different, changed, or in between?
am i soft now or too extreme?
tell me tell me help me tell me what you see

hey you there look at me
tell me tell me help me tell me what you see
am i the same man i used to be?
bitter, sweet, or in between?
am i soft now or too extreme?
tell me tell me help me tell me what you see

everybody put your eyes on me
roll ‘em up and down, tell me what you see
am i entrenched in a mystery
or knee-deep in an old routine?
am i stuck in a strange belief?
tell me tell me tell me tell me what it means

what will i do with myself?
what should i do with myself?
what will we do with ourselves
now that there’s so much to tell?
thinking of it makes my hyper

hey you take a look at me
tell me tell me help me tell me what you see
am i the man i was meant to be?
something more than just a beast?
am i rough now or too pristine?
nothing at all or everything?

hey you tell me what it means
tell me ‘bout the crimes of the birdless wings
is there a hole where they used to sing
where the maggots float and shy men scream?
are we the beat in a wicked dream
that the shaman says he can’t repeat?

what will i do with myself?
what can i do with myself?
what should we do with ourselves
now that we’re back on the shelves?
thinking of it makes my skin crawl
what made the fly alive or magnet sing?
these are the things that i would want to be
but the knuckled remnants that claw and cling
and the paper flames i crawl beneath
though they inspire they don’t bring release
why won’t the let me?

hey you hanging by a twine
i see you dangling there from the other side
are we the frame that along the line
contextualized the wrong design?
are we the frame that in some dark place
turned a vicious act into a masterpiece?

what will i do with myself?
maybe i’ll think of it later
maybe we’ll all take a rest
now that there are so few of us left
makes my fingers claustrophobic

a thousand fresh skull-zippers up and down
incessant microtonal spectrum drowns the shouts
as you tell me tell me tell me what it’s all about
as you grapple with the lightening bolts and zealot crowds

help me find a place in the human face where
there is space for the microcosm of an eternal race
and what is the rent there?

what’ll we do with the shelves
now that they’re no longer there?
a box of small dots is what’s left
their hooks have long been presumed dead
thinking of it makes me happy