1. FEED

He'll smoulder like the city lights do, you will walk through them the way you've always liked to.
He would hold you like the avenue can, but he's Incidental Man.
He'd taste you like the morning wind that's braiding through your hair, so let the day begin.
He'd wake with you the way the wind can, but he's Incidental Man.
Some lives carry heavy weight and turn a world of heads with their determined gait, and some pass by like grains of sand : enter Incidental Man.
Pull his static life from off the static cross, thrust a blade of joy into the ribs of loss.
Anoint him any way that you can : Incidental Man.
History calls and you cannot say no.
Think of your past and you don't want to go, but you're rapping at her window all alone.
Think of your life and you think of your tears at the thought of the battles you've fought through the years and the feel of her shiny incisors alive at your throat.
History shall perform neccesary surgery upon you.


2. THE GOAT

You will find few statues of the meek cut into stone, you will find few statues of old men who die alone.
If you want sculptor's hands at work to replicate your head, the quickest way they'll find you is to leave a trail of dead.
Compassion will not help you, you are better off instead developing a taste for marrow spread across your bread.
To learn the dance of maggots as they chew apart the land, to give the goat the refuge once alotted to the lamb.
You will find few statues of the humble caring priest, or of the loving family saying grace before they feast.
You will find, immortalized, the architects of rape; you may protest all you want but you cannot escape.
All hail the goat. You cannot escape.


3. BEHIND THE VEIL

You can't see my face, it's a place I fall into, behind the wall of sleep, 'cause you could never take my place.
Rising dark star paints my mind, takes assurance from the East.
It's another state of mind, smash to ashes without a sign -- it's a war you cannot win.
Afraid of what you cannot see, what to feel and what to think.
It's another state of mind; behind the veil, the lie's surprise -- it's a war you cannot win.
It's in the eyes, right between the eyes.


4. THE HUNT

If you grow fins and gills and hide in the Atlantic from me, I'll set my lures and lines and pitch my tent upon the high seas.
If you grow feathered wings and take flight like the summer birds do, I'll bind my arrowheads with twine; they'll follow right behind you.
Give up, give up, 'cause I will not let up.
Be my brand new set of bones. Give up, give up.
What on earth were you thinking ?
Be my brand new set of bones.
If you should dig beneath the soil to burrow deep below me, I'll set my spades against the earth until the planet's empty.
When you point rockets to the sky so you might shine as stars do, like Samson at the pillars I will drop the night upon you.
I walk with silent feet and silent thoughts on empty streets, so try to hide and be discreet, though I will not forget.
My stony heart, my iron mind collaborate in double time; convincing you that you are mine but you won't hear me yet.
Give up, give up, 'cause I will not let up.
Be my brand new set of bones.
Give up, give up.
What on earth were you thinking ?
Be my brand new set of bones.
You were never thinking.
You had never thought things out.


5. SHARPENING KNIVES

Climbing in your ears, sitting in your mind.
Promising the blind there will be sight at morning.
Rising up the dead, infiltrating heads.
Painting cities red.
This is the final warning.
Make it understood.
Lifting up the hood, polishing the valves.
All systems : check.
Ignition. Combing through our files, cracking open vials.
Alchemy's a trial; I seek the final potion.
Take it to the heart, make another start.
Learning to destroy, enabling creation.
Feel it in your bones; strike upon the clones.
You are not alone, but live, and on location.
Sharpening your knives, humor pushed aside.
We are taking lives and taking no vacations.
Rotting everywhere, smell it in the air : soulless millionaires drone on without exemption.
When is it to give ?
Hands evolve to fists.
All the children know that they crave stimulation.
Oceans start to rise; wicked drop like flies.
Anthems fill the sky to praise a brand new nation.


6. SETTLEMENT

Let your icy arrogance accompany your slumbers.
All the other suitors turned away.
Smuggled in your coffin boat, defiance is your virtue.
It's too late, and I won't wait for you.
There's nothing ordinary; not the way you drag me in.
Cold and cruel intoxicants seduce me with their shadows.
Seven veils wrap seven times around my cloudy eyes.
Surely none can touch me when there's little left to damage.
It's too late, and you won't wait for me.
There's nothing ordinary... the way I let you drag me in.
Broken like the daylight, the pair, apart again.
You and I can settle this.
You and I are settling... each of us will settle for less.


7. ARCHAOLOGY

Choke on this, you seasoned liars.
This rhythm will not retire.
Name the illness as it thrusts a wrench into your scemes.
When you can't define the creature, you feel you should kill the creature.
Keep no record of its features, murderer of dreams.
Know the children of tomorrow won't be so consumed by sorrow they will not pick up a pencil; sketch you as you're seen.
When the critic's criticized and swiftly stripped of his disguise, no balm will anaesthetize, no cleansing get him clean.
All music used to be was bones on skin stretched across wood; no chords.


8. THIRTEEN HANDS

Swing me hard, barometer.
Let me measure out the rain.
Hold the water to the rising sun.
Translate pleasure into pain.
Swing me hard, barometer.
Pressure drops me into place.
Oh, this lonely home confinement leaves me reeling from its taste.
I am at the mouthpiece.
Steady your receiver.
Ready is the hammer when the iron's hot.
Let the rats have at me; vultures too, there's plenty.
Press the soul beneath the pestle, giving all I've got.
Swing me hard, barometer; full of caviar and wine.
Plant my face into the gutter.
Close the circle everytime.
Swing me hard barometer.
Break my heart like none before.
Bring a host of hungry angels.
Clean and dress my sorry sores.
Driven by the waves, I am the anchor.
Groggy in the fog, I will ignite.
Lost among the clouds, I am Orion.
Nestled in your smile, I am delight.
Can't describe a table without things to place upon it.
Can't describe a safety net without a man who's fallen.
Gluttony means nothing to someone who's never hungered.
Venomous with clarity : the poison is rewarding.
Can't describe my empty hands without your hand in mine.
Can't describe my empty hands.
Can't describe your spirit hands.


9. HEAVEN

Heaven help the sorry man who cannot find a home.
No woman he can cling to, all the fields as bare as bones.
Heaven help the convict who will humbly do his time.
No chance of a pardon when the cell is forged and guarded by your mind.
Brothers, sisters, take my hand.
Get together now; we're bound to later.
As every sunset steals a little more, welcome our emancipator.
He doesn't need a key beneath the mat.
He rattles like the leafless branches, sweeping in on a wheeless wagon to take me home.
Heaven help the child, finally strapped in for the ride.
Battered like a plaything; oh, the pain will come in tides.
Heaven help the elderly.
Although their end is near, they tremble at the thought of it.
Recognize their fear.
Brothers, sisters, take my hand.
The boat is sinking fast.
Love, though antiquated, is not tethered to the past.
Woman, as you hear these words please ease my worried head, or forgive me my trespasses if I'm already-- if I'm all ready.


10. THE TAKING TREE

Give the tree soil. Let the tree grow.
Then down it will come when the winter winds blow.
Give the tree stone so the roots are secure.
The branches will hunger and wither, I'm sure.
Leave the tree be, living free as a dove.
The leaves will atrophy from feeling unloved.
Smother the tree with affectionate shears.
It's immature fruit will resent you for years.
When it comes to the planting and the growing of trees, there's a delicate balance of want and need.
Remembering, friend, not a solitary seed ought to grow.
When it comes to horticulture and the ways of the earth, you'd better take the harvest for what it's worth; 'til the bountiful and barren have a sameness you will come to know.
When it comes to the planting and the growing of trees, there's a delicate balance of love and greed.
Both the bountiful and barren are pure and as cold as snow.
There once was a boy and he once loved a tree.
And he gave and he loved 'til, confused as can be, he wielded a hatchet.
It yielded a boat.
He sailed from the forest, his wake like a moat.
Stay your hatchet, sister.