The Air Is Full Of Ghosts
the air is full of ghosts
we suck them in when we breathe
we exhale them when we cough up the remains
of bloodstained handkerchief memorials
they nourish their young
in the palms of our hands
in the spaced out world of synapse electrical blast furnace trig
they wont let us count them, you know, take a census
they play with us under the covers
we, in our burrows and dens of imaginary safety
just sanctified ghosts imprisoned in skin
like crustaceans hurting as we move
looking up at those who make shadows across our eyes
as they swoop
but ghosts, man, they are stoned
they are free
to walk through the walls of the tiny human conscious
they speak like scientists, swim in hemoglobin
dissolve into each other when they are in love
they dance, unworriedlike
me, yeah, when I play music, I play it for my fans
the ghosts