Busting a move On my sofa dancefloor. Just me in my room My hand jive My breakdance My cushions My home. Me and my songs. My cigarettes and my wine. My good time. And no-one else around.
I know its plain I know its sane I know its white and hung outside And the nails are inside out. And they crisp you dry. Its so lonely when the eye's are blind And they look away, outside. Its almost like your tomb is inside out . Your mausoleum is spitting out pen pals. Its lonely when you're hung out to dry, Like an angel delight thats butterscotch blind. Hanging high beneath the beetroot sky. It won't matter now. They'll blind thier eyes.
Stupor putrefies. Knees wobble and hands prostrate. Spirit slows its breathing. Beholden to the madness Laity massed around. Sip. Sip. Drip. Drip. Pray the sun doesn't rise tomorrow.
I'm helping you. You're helping me It's a crackhead two way *******. Scratching out the pit we loom over. How deep down does the Satan pit go? As deep as our retribution arc unravels. See you on the other side fellow acolyte. Studiously staring into the abyss.
Blood of my blood Sins of my sins Wrists are everything you need. Cutting board cutting stains Hold them out and let them renew The world is so alive For a zombie.
I fell in love with my idol He toppled me, I lay flat, He towered me, I stood strong. He cast me out. I'm done praying. The totem rodded me And I received. Let someone else prostrate before that draft ******* plank. Silly painted branch. Graffitied with lies.
Clinging to happiness Grip is slipping, Another line Another day Another ***. Another beer. One last hurrah. I wonder to myself, Does my mother actually know me?
She'll never understand These callous lonely bitter eyes of mine. He'll never see beneath, These shallow ghostlike poisonous personas In this charleton pantomime of mine.
The Dredger dragged its death across the fields of bountiful children. The father's, with murderous eyes scathed the land with thier gaze. The mother's cradled the future, bleeding wildly from thier womb. Palms against the sky the parents embrace. Familial certainty binding thier ****** in bleach white bandages. The matrimonial baptism dredges on.
The sun cleaved into his eyelids. He stuttered into life. Showered with regret and shame He toweled himself down. He stared into the mirror. And readied his venom, To spit again.
Flashing at the eyes, the TV shows the sky. Why not go outside? It doesn't flash at the eyes. Listening to nonessential gibberish, The TV chunners on. Why not go outside? It doesn't chunner gibberish. Looking out the window, the TV shows the window. Why not go outside. The TV shows outside.
Words so cold, **** off everything. Take the memories. Words so hollow. Forget all of it, Horde the lot of it. Words forlorn, Swallow all the pain Take this mental strain. Words, my own. Be myself again, Life, a filthy stain
Haha what ******* absolute gibberish. The screen is glazed with honey. Words. What are words when the honey is so sweet. Sweet enough to drown out insignificance. The screen of honey is strong and is a sieve for *****.
The sudden realisation that you're toxicaly self aware is poisoness and astounding and who the **** even cares. You're a hippo you're a butterfly, a god. And you're deeply, unrepentantly alone. In your hole. Down your well. Floating in a stream up that doesn't exist.
I stare at myself in the mirror. It's stillness and silence mocking. I smile and it smirks. Such violent silence as we stare at each other. Staring at pure psychosis, ripping and tearing at our reflection. The sickening, purifying, hatred. Claws at the glass. The eyes never move, the stare is never broken, for he knows that I am him and he is me, and we are the mirror.
So. I look like a massive *******. When all is do is self deprived nonessential cuntish behaviour. Those outside can see with clarity. What's happening to me. But on the inside those outdoor eyes are always so unfriendly and hostile and, just, well, ******* nosey.
Inside our sollace, our suicide, our killing and ******. Inside in its splendor and its candid horror. The door is terrifying. Terrific! And terrible. The other world, clawing, scraping at the seams. Bounce away on your bouncy castle you silly little boy. Break your legs and tear your throat. There are more than your own eyes on your demise.
Machete made contact today. Her neck was no match for the blade. Snip, he ****** her hard. Over and over. Over again. Til she dried out.disgusted he pulled himself away. Necromantic fantasy complete he stared at the dry ******. He messed up. Better chuck it in the bin.
They say that life is fleeting, I wish mine would fleet right off. Loved ones say 'you can't mean that' I say fleet them all. Fleet you, your mum, your whole **** family, Fleet the fleeting dog. Fleet this world that I live in, This fleetless fleeting pit.
'are you finished?' loved ones kindly protest. 'No I'm fleeting not!' Fleet you all, and please kindly Let me fleet to memory.
Is there a reason you refer to me in the past tence? Have you ever licked marble doctor? Salty and certain. I'm going to ****** my husband. You know I am. Tomorrow.
Even in my wildest dreams... I'm here. Waiting for you. In our secret place. Our place. Waiting for you. Waiting for you to free me. From times chains, From you. I'm waiting. Waiting for you to free me. From you.
So forlorn, You hide behind smiles. So bitter, Your sheathe your spittle, smile. Only you know what this madness is, doubt You'd ever know if those words were cried out, I'd die a thousand times you'd only smile, I've died a thousand times and you stayed quiet.
Chewy chewy bugs. Make the fox do the happy dance. Let the fox dance. Hes happy. Feasting on his tea. Chewy fox happy fox. Cute fox in his fox hole. Leave the fox be. In his happy hole. He'll play tomorrow.
Empty smiles, such fakeness People say that you should never hurt. Never say what they truely feel. As my world is breaking Smashed to pieces in my universe.
Does a dozen make a dime? Does a dime make a difference? Does a difference make a dossier? Does a dossier make any sense at all because this is making about as much sense as your life which is as delightfully nonsensical as this script.
Dressed in ink smiles we stare back, Memories on paper lost to time. Happy visions gone by, Premonitions of time already lost. I hold the moments in my hand, and I wonder to myself, Would they recognise me now?
His hand raced across his skin. The tracks were clear and the driver was driving. He was winning as the flag flapped and faded. The driver delighted at the champagne spray.
The end is oh so sweet. We're telling the story as they see it. As they want to hear it. To take it in. They try to adopt it. And we spiel on. Speak and spiel and ramble. A sad story never told but never heard. And never listened to. Our deaf concert. Our gouged eyed gallery. Ours but silent. Ours but deficient. Ours but just for us. As we twirl down and around this silly path together, one tiptoe behind the other. You and me him and I. The object and the thing. This is me and we are it. The object, slammed and squished down the plughole, by grotty fingers through a grimey grate. That is grateful. Because. And this is the real cuntfucker. I am. I exist. I stain a stainless slab of green. In an endless ocean of nightmares for those that have vision to see but are deaf enough to see. And Now you have it My heart in your hands. And the beat is a rhythm for you to play. So let the deconstructed Orchestra fill the room. And let's allow. Just this once. The little boy to sing.
He drinks in his bitterness His communion wine He guzzles it down Washing over him A river of hate. Anew he rises. Proud and afraid. Unloved and despised. Just the way he likes it.
The corset grows tighter The mind thickens with the weight of the plot The screen gets brighter as the moon clouds the sound The viens grow nearer to the claws that keep them flowing.
Hang time as the Watchman whistles, A merry tune dancing upon; The daisies. Stiffened, to attention. Rigid salutations, graciously fragile. What use is a cornman in a field of daisies? When a Watchman watches such watchless whimsy? The Watchman hangs in his field of daisies, Rigid, salutations, in the hang time breeze.
Lying in a bed of needles Just you and me and our bed sheets Lying in our friendship circle It's lonely in our circle holdout. The only way to breathe; is get out When you're here with me there's no sound.