call me in the grave, or don't call me at all. make a fist, and count your knuckles. be sudden, or be nothing at all. sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my skull shattering. you know what they say, there's always a PH balance imbalanced somewhere in the world. but, the archeologists, after decades of research, will inevitably tell you that it's not here.
drive that nail! drive it deep!
the paint not only peels, but spontaneously combusts, and the crazy melts away. poison in the water and poison in the air and MickeyD's in between. fertile ground for infertile minds. inferno minds? perhaps, if we continue to lace our lives with mediocrity. a fast-paced oblivion. "hazy circles round the eyes."
take a knee, it's been a big day. now breathe deep through those gills and chase that horror all the way downtown. (your horror. salsa horror.)
wasted national talk and inverse megaphones. long walks off short resumes, and that sulfuric waft. the dogs outnumber the squirrels and it's "all so fucking hysterical", and then someone, doesn't matter who, goes the fuck to bed. leaving the rest of us with the designation of "cogs". jittery clangy cogs and scattered mania; a slave to that entirely expected asshole who says, "If I gave you the secrets, then they would kill me."
maybe it's fucking time to die for those secrets? time to take that ultimate stand, even though it means standing in quicksand?
or, maybe that cobweb of doubt draped across your cheek, just when your philosophy was reaching its zenith, and you twitched?
drive that nail! drive it deep!
the paint not only peels, but spontaneously combusts, and the crazy melts away. poison in the water and poison in the air and MickeyD's in between. fertile ground for infertile minds. inferno minds? perhaps, if we continue to lace our lives with mediocrity. a fast-paced oblivion. "hazy circles round the eyes."
take a knee, it's been a big day. now breathe deep through those gills and chase that horror all the way downtown. (your horror. salsa horror.)
wasted national talk and inverse megaphones. long walks off short resumes, and that sulfuric waft. the dogs outnumber the squirrels and it's "all so fucking hysterical", and then someone, doesn't matter who, goes the fuck to bed. leaving the rest of us with the designation of "cogs". jittery clangy cogs and scattered mania; a slave to that entirely expected asshole who says, "If I gave you the secrets, then they would kill me."
maybe it's fucking time to die for those secrets? time to take that ultimate stand, even though it means standing in quicksand?
or, maybe that cobweb of doubt draped across your cheek, just when your philosophy was reaching its zenith, and you twitched?
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