Pressed the seven sequenced silver panic b___ons,
The distress calls that fall on a distracted short-wave signal.
A metronome timed to my panic stricken breathing
and a pulse conducted by our dying lines.
You said my heart sounded like a payphone in the rain.
Distorted, distant, scrambled and desperate.

Baby, I swear to god tonight I am sober.
It's the reception between us that's failing.
Everything's coming out all frenzied and confused.
She's got what it takes to make collapsing a habit
and a dance out of a tantrum fit
(it's tragic but I am sobering up).

Pick up the phone.
Tonight I feel like the hero of a rusting war.
My touch has the timing and precision of a car wreck.
No use translating the trembles.
They're symptoms of repetitive testing for fluctuation.
If I come back home, I am bringing back the bends.
So give me a kiss. Let me taste the reptilian appeal.

Say it again baby. Come on. Say it again.
Does it make you hot? Did it turn you on?

I get a little hysterical sometimes.
The panic.

You shouldn't have been so sentimental.
All that kicking and screaming.
Everything I touch starts peeling.
We malfunction like machines.
Get up off the floor and answer the phone.

I just wanted to be a big star.
I didn't want to touch so hard.
I just wanted to be a big star, baby.
I didn't mean to squeeze so f___ing hard.

Open the door.
I am your deviant satellite,
an orbit defected by the ballast of words.
You're the reason for collisions.

I am face down like a sailor washed up under your window.
Tonight is a shipwreck.
Navigating through disorder.

Now every electric star hums like a telecaster.
How punk rock is that?
You're so oblivious.
Baby, you're my oblivion.

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