The physical copy of this album is packaged with a book of poems that are the lyrics to the 10 songs on the album, a necessary companion to get the full "In Tongues" experience of poetry and music.
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lyrics
Fried Chicken
O, you got a junky smooth
like razor burn
and that laugh was broken glass
with all of the shards still stuck up in there.
Up there,
where the only nightmare is
not knowing the name of your own demise,
what color it might come in,
what shadows it has dealt, or who it had
in last night's bed.
GOD DAMN, MAN, I mean...
I stuck it in the same place for months,
I didn't think that vein would ever collapse
but eventually the bastard did, I had to move down
and start hitting myself in the wrist.
Do you really think that it was a most uninvited violation
and not this mix of egg and flour? My sweetest invocation.
My biggest mistake to date was not noticing this desolation
as I tip-toe-tapped into the neon lit chicken joint across the street
and stood in gaping awe of the menu offered before me.
OKAY... THERE ARE REAL, HONEST-TO-GOD, PAINTED BY THE HAND OF LEONARDO FUCKIN' DA VINCI
ANGELS OUT THERE MAN... LAID OUT ON THEIR BACKS, LEGS SPREAD APART WITH A COO & A SIGH
AND TRADING SEXUAL FAVORS JUST TO GET A TASTE OF THIS SHIT, MAN!
So, this chicken is that good, huh?
You bet.
Yeah, you got your junky shuffle down pat,
smash your piggy bank daily to achieve
PURE POETIC NARCOTIC.
That highly enlightened state where you ain't got to say a word,
the absence of your pupils says it all kid,
and even after five years clean I'm still stuck up in this shit
and we both still walk up to Seventh Street every day to score.
You, for Morphine.
Me... Fried chicken.
And Colonel Sanders came down from Mount Sinai holding two stone tablets
depicting his thirteen different spices and flavors and gave forth to the peoples of Israel
a wax paper bucket of chicken and said,
-Lo...
Change not my recipe, nor abbreviate my name to KFC
for I AM Kentucky Fried! And ye shall not create any brazen images before me!
O, you got your junky smooth, so smooth
like spreading mayonnaise on wheat toast,
borrowing your blues from a lone saxophone.
You find a vein.
You call that art.
Junkies like to eat their eggs over easy or over quickly, whichever.
I like my chicken fried
spicy hot pop rock melody.
And Israel loved its chicken
as America loved its heroin.
Learned to accept its rape. Learned to count its loss like so many pennies tossed
into a well, and eventually there lied a copper fortune of spent wishes. One thousand
used syringes piling up in the gutters. One thousand more chicken bones picked clean
and thrown to trash cans. You spent your dreams, spent your money, spent your whole
God damned life.
Now I sit in Kentucky
eating chicken which is not "Kentucky Fried,"
although it was fried in Kentucky,
because the Colonel took his patent with him
to franchise the River Jordan.
And Israel exiled me like I exiled myself
from junky-forced bulimia.
Colonel Sanders learned to accept his fate
and quietly obliged his barren cross in
NEON ICON EFFIGY.
Heroin is still cheaper than chicken,
recipe is still a potent gospel.
But,
hey man,
hey man,
I'm chewing on her thighs,
I'm biting into her breasts,
and my fried angel
HAS REAL, HONEST-TO-GOD, PAINTED BY THE HAND OF LEONARDO FUCKIN' DA VINCI
wings.
Man.
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