Sherlock Holmes - The Seven-Percent Solution

trip-hop noir, avant-garde rock, industrial-leaning experimental garage

+ Show full styles

V5.5

Hear that tick? a nail through the dark.
Hear that fog? it’s a wet palm on the glass.
I am not broken, only overrun.
Overclocked.
A chandelier of sparks
with the wire cut.

Seven percent! Seven percent! just enough to dull the inner knife!
Seven percent! Seven percent! keep the wolves from behind my eyes!
Not mercy, not rest.
Just a thin black river through the burning.
Seven percent! Seven percent!
I drink the fault line dry!

Old newspapers stacking like winter beneath the lamp.
Ink-smudge hands, rotten headlines, a market of dead throats.
I speak to the wallpaper seam, to the bruise-colored drape,
to the cracked mirror where ten hungry versions of me keep muttering.
Too much room inside the skull.
That is the sentence. That is the trick.
A mind made for blades stuck sharpening its own shadow...
while the night refuses to leave a footprint.

Hear that tick? a splinter under the bone.
Hear that fog? a glove over the lungs.
I reach for stillness,
and stillness flinches.

If I stand still, I split; if I think, I splinter.
The room narrows into a funnel, the clock into a wound.
It keeps gnawing the center—little iron teeth, little faithful devourer.
And I am laughing, or grinding my molars, hard to tell.
If the engine keeps feeding, what then?
If brilliance is only appetite
with polished shoes?

The fog settles in.
Twenty-two-B goes mute.
The room is still.
And the engine, at last...
paused.

2132/7500

Baker Street breathing like a throat half-buried. Fog in the sash, fog in the stairwell, fog in the marrow. Mud crusted to the boots, old papers sagging under lampheat. I pace the room stop pace the thought stop pace it harder. The clock keeps its thin iron prayer in a room built too tight for the mind, Each tick a pin, each pause a bruise. No case on the table, so the skull begins eating the skull. It bites the hand, then files the wound into a pattern. Hear that tick? a nail through the dark. Hear that fog? it’s a wet palm on the glass. I am not broken, only overrun. Overclocked. A chandelier of sparks with the wire cut. Seven percent! Seven percent! just enough to dull the inner knife! Seven percent! Seven percent! keep the wolves from behind my eyes! Not mercy, not rest. Just a thin black river through the burning. Seven percent! Seven percent! I drink the fault line dry! Old newspapers stacking like winter beneath the lamp. Ink-smudge hands, rotten headlines, a market of dead throats. I speak to the wallpaper seam, to the bruise-colored drape, to the cracked mirror where ten hungry versions of me keep muttering. Too much room inside the skull. That is the sentence. That is the trick. A mind made for blades stuck sharpening its own shadow... while the night refuses to leave a footprint. Hear that tick? a splinter under the bone. Hear that fog? a glove over the lungs. I reach for stillness, and stillness flinches. If I stand still, I split; if I think, I splinter. The room narrows into a funnel, the clock into a wound. It keeps gnawing the center—little iron teeth, little faithful devourer. And I am laughing, or grinding my molars, hard to tell. If the engine keeps feeding, what then? If brilliance is only appetite with polished shoes? Seven percent! Seven percent! just enough to dull the inner knife! Seven percent! Seven percent! keep the wolves from behind my eyes! Not mercy, not rest. Just a thin black river through the burning. Seven percent! Seven percent! I drink the fault line dry! The fog settles in. Twenty-two-B goes mute. The room is still. And the engine, at last... paused.

0/500