Mud in the taste

While I dance in the gutter, I feel at home
And I play with the guttural sounds, alone
They stare as I mutter, all meaningless
All caked in mud, the pain, the waste

Stripping away the layers of lies
I stand stark naked and undisguised
But what am I left with?
What am I without the lies?

Now I freak in the gutter, shrieking hate
Nothing but a guttural apostate
Is there truth in the mutterings I create?
Or just mud in the sound and in the taste?

Now I am naked I realise
That to be unclothed is not to be wise
But what are we left with?
What are we without the lies?

I'm still in the gutter and I'm unsure
If I've heard all these guttural words before
If to be clean doesn't matter any more
If to be pure of mud is to be chaste

Have they been heard, my cries?
Have my truths been synthesised?
What is the world left with?
What is the world without the lies?

Victoria line 30/10/05