who's in the bunker who's in the bunker an idioteque panic claustrophobic fear while standing in a wide flat land no shadow or shade with nothing to fear nothing to doubt | joni mitchell sitting in the underground: long straight blonde hair, sandales held together by two black plastic roses, laced armsleeves | the light rain is god's spitting while saying the death of the author | you've got to put your body on the machine and make it stop | i wish i could just scream myself to some remote part of iowa into an empty, endless field and you would be my concrete shield against my own heart | i'm missing you and your barbed wire words that i take with both my hands to rub them into both my eyes | this blood is transparent with the memory of all the fun we had back then, the games we used to play: when i came back home she would stay at her parents' place and i had to find out which things did not belong into our flat: his coke in the fridge his books in the living room his styling foam in the bathroom the cassette he recorded for her in the stereo his hair on the soap in the shower and this is what it feels like when you're diving up too fast i swallow until i burst until i burst until i stand on the tightrope never dreamed i could fall an iron insect is crawling across my arm with cold, sharp legs, leaving behind it a thin trail and the soothing sensation of pain you can control | headcrash and headache and headless laughing women and children first and children first and children get out get out get out of here walls closing in people closing in noises closing in and panic fitting like a second skin | fake other | no air | take the money and run take the money and run take the money...