Relevance: [song lyrics]
Fastidiously mopped stairs shine red with high heels reflecting fluorescence
past perilously cropped hair blinding spoken pithy suggestions.
Stepped from the last balcony of wormy wood to a pale carpet,
Stars pet a tarp wet with bar debts,
Casually counting glasses as her glance passes me by,
I finally look up with disgust and wish I could buy
One more sun for the rain-fly
One more gun for the sane guy,
One more tum for the pain I
Found upon re-entering my parent’s nest with a little less carelessness.
Spare me the incest at best we're
lathering disgrace over stained piles of printed possessions,
but the books left my questions wrecked and speckled over shallow regressions
in the sub-sections of the soup of the day.
Dismayed, hesitation will stay to feed only the presently drowned,
in the sub-sections of the soup of the day.
Dismayed, hesitation will stay to feed only the presently drowned,
Bound sleek metal slipped cherry cortexes into grinding vortexes of tea-kettles boiling bashfully sentimental pent-up navy gentlemen,
Their scent threw me off my cavalier canvas,
Stanzas of stammering hammers couched carefully supported structural thrusts on every hypothesis before I closed the pot lid again and slunk into sickness.
Memory grabs all those who prefab their second by second moment maps
And caps a billowing out flowering with a pillow souring in slick sinew powdering.
Now stick that silken soft sanctuary in your pipe and breathe it in with relief,
As though all your grief was stolen by a thief while you inhaled so deep.
But that was not peace,
so hilariously his nefarious deeds will go carelessly unheeded towards a punishment unbearably unfair:
But that was not peace,
so hilariously his nefarious deeds will go carelessly unheeded towards a punishment unbearably unfair:
First we’ll tear out all his hair and cut off one eyelid,
so staggering slow he’ll be forced to stare at our bombs ripping through the children once in his care.
Evaporated soup will be made of his mom and stricken he’ll slit his wrists till his arms look like sliced pears that sat in the open air for too long.
so staggering slow he’ll be forced to stare at our bombs ripping through the children once in his care.
Evaporated soup will be made of his mom and stricken he’ll slit his wrists till his arms look like sliced pears that sat in the open air for too long.
Whoops, I guess this song just took a turn for the torture tongs,
But before we stretch my tongue beyond function let me use this moment to junction us into a new partition of rosy prose.
Well here it goes
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