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! I can't breathe! Man, 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, man, 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.
I had somewhere to go, so I went to 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, which lead to 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 a room of saturated blues and cigarette smoke, illuminated by black and white camera flashes from photgraphers in tuxedoes.
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 nacht, in Skyscraper, New York.


Lyrics submitted by marzipanflows

That Dissonant Shriek song meanings
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