Crank, Crank.

She whips out another tale; doesn't even have to summon the
poetic realms before something sexy as hell has bought and sold
the blank lifeless parchment.

Crank, crank, why won't the engine start up? My spine starts
inheriting the traits of jellied flunkey, and

the floor gets the grand prize
because it keeps me from falling
today.

Crank, crank.
Pushing forward, so much
concentrated energy,
all amounting to
only a
second of reprieve.

Maybe tomorrow my greatest endeavors
will make a complete equation.
Effort = results.


Crank, crank. Why is everything wrong
with you people? But why is everything
right with pushing the lever
one notch closer;
loosening the holes on your belt?

Crank, crank.
The clock's not yet struck twelve
and my ego is arguing with my id.
I consider all of the advantages of
cranking out the full product, the finished piece
with you.

Crank, crank, all I hear
are the clicking ripples of a projector, as
my energy gradually cranks up and another realm
of my short fuse is turned on.
You've got one too, sweetheart, and
maybe the electricity won't outlast that of the gods, but we
refuse to be the machine that's heard
in the background;
aged like crap and
fallen out of rhythm. And I must say.

Your productivity is satisfactory, and the prowess in me graduates with honors.

I can't see the whole movie, but with each
crank I feel a little closer to the ecstasy of
knowing what it is
not to feel the stalling
stops. and starts of

Crank, crank.
We took that cup and drank
the creative fusion of two passion-riddled lovers
all the way down.