Text: Bad Religion. Against The Grain. Turn On The Light.

I had a friend who kept a candle in his pocket,
he used to touch it when the wind was blowing high,
I guess it made him feel like he could buck the system
and when it flickered out we laid him down to die,
turn on the light,
turn on a million blinding brilliant white incendiary lights,
a beacon in the night,
I'll burn relentlessly until my juice runs dry
I'll construct a rack of tempered beams and trusses
and equip it with a million tiny suns,
I'll install upon the roof of my compartment
and place tinfoil on my floor and on my walls,
then I'll turn on the light . . .
and I'll burn like a roman fucking candle,
like a chasm in the night,
for a miniscule duration,
ecstatic immolation,
incorrigible delight.