Lyrics:

There is an anemic embrace on the street
A kiss is thrown, meets another, drops to the sidewalk and goes for a tumble
You warn of tight clouds that wriggle like armyworms
A form of algebra suicide, I guess. I want to telephone the sailors
Curse their songs of gasoline as the light in the booth turns me hideous
I want to become hydraulic. Hit the newsstands, national exposure
Feel the world crawl into me through the fingers as the traffic outside locks, stops, and goes soft
I want to talk about milk, about the invisible bones of the face
About this brain that sits too close to the skin
While I hear you tell me we could be chainsaws under the stars
Under what stars?