25th Floor (& High On Rebellion) lyrics

Song information

Artist: Patti Smith
Album: Easter

Lyrics

We explore the men's room
We don't give a shit
Ladies' lost electricity;
Take vows inside of it

Desire to dance;
Too startled to try
Wrap my legs 'round you
Starting to fly

Let's explore
Up there, up there, up there
On the twenty-fifth floor

Circle all around me
Coming for the kill, kill, kill
Oh kill me baby
Like a kamikaze
Heading for a spill
Oh but it's all spilt milk to me

Desire to dance;
Too startled to try
Wrap my legs 'round you
Starting to fly

Let's soar
Up there, up there, up there
On the twenty-fifth floor

We do not eat
Flower of creation
We do not eat
Eat anything at all
Love is, love was, love is a manifestation
I'm waiting for a contact to call
Love's war. love's cruel
Love's pretty, love's pretty cruel tonight
I'm waiting here to refuel
I'm gonna make contact tonight
Love in my heart
The night to exploit
Twenty-five stories over detroit
And there's more
Up there, up there, up there

Stoned in space. zeus. christ. it has always been rock and so it is and so it shall be. within the context of neo rock we must open up our eyes and seize and rend the veil of smoke which man calls order. pollution is a necessary result of the inability of man to reform and transform waste
The transformation of waste
The transformation of waste
The transformation of waste
The transformation of waste is perhaps the oldest pre-occupation of man. man being the chosen alloy, he must be reconnected—via shit, at all cost. inherent with(in) us is the dream of the task of the alchemist to create from the clay of man. and to re-create from excretion of man pure and then soft and then solid gold

All must not be art. some art we must disintegrate
Positive (anarchy must exist.)

In background:
(I feel it swirling around me
I feel it feeling no pain
I'm waiting above for you baby
I know that I'll see you up there
I'm floating in a door backward
On boundaries over this world
I'm waiting above in the sky, dear
Upon a [ ] ...)

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High on rebellion
What I feel when I'm playing guitar is completely cold and crazy, like I don't owe nobody nothing and it's just a test just to see how far I can relax into the cold wave of a note. when everything hits just right (just and right) the note of nobility can go on forever. I never tire of the solitary e and I trust my guitar and I don't care about anything. sometimes I feel like I've broken through and I'm free and I could dig into eternity into eternity riding the wave and realm of the e. sometimes it's useless. here I am struggling and filled with dread—afraid that I'll never squeeze enough graphite from my damaged cranium to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page. inside of me I'm crazy I'm just crazy. inside I must continue. I see her, my stiff muse, jutting around round round round like a broken speeding statue. the colonial year is dead and the greeks too are finished. the face of alexander remains not only solely due to sculpture but through the power and foresig
Ht and magnetism of alexander himself. the artist must maintain his swagger. he must he must he must be intoxicated by ritual as well as result. look at me I am laughing. I am laughing. I am lapping cocaine from the hard brown palm of the bouncer. and I trust my guitar. therefore we black out together. therefore I would run through scum. and scum is just ahead, ah we see it, but we just laugh. we're ascending through the hollow mountain. we are peeking. we are laughing. we are kneeling. we are laughing. we are radiating at last. this rebellion is just a gas our gas a gas that we pass