Jul 2017
Death, is a precious beauty.
The hang glider comes from her mountain with the water of the gods to feed the foe, the toad that linches and seethes, sticking gratitude to her heart. Why is he? He should have been, but now he's gone. Shoot the white haired lady, she feels no pain,
I want lightning, a meaning, a triumph that sells pills to me in the back of a dusty van in the night, I want white hair and a balding mind, with nothing but you and your dye.
You are the poet's parts, it covers him. I am no one, and I think you know that. You can never be with me because you are in a slow decent into adulthood and I am becoming a child. I must understand, but there is pain.
White-washed hairdresser with a meaningless smile, Call me your man, listen to the words I say. I am loud and boastful, like a great animal I scream the truth. I have no home like the wounds, come all ye faithful, words are quite clear.
I want you.....
I want you..... so bad.
It's the delta blues I couldn't ignore.
There is meaning in the, there is a saltiness I can't ignore. Where is truth and the squabble? Where is understanding and the sacred? I soak in warmth, I bask in the insipid stories of deadly man and heartache and nothingness,
Gone, like a symbol, new, like the universe. Stocking that rip under my hands, real...
Touch, a gentleness, soft, harsh, and cold, be thee alone. Call no one, say NOTHING. Jealousy manifests, liver, the hardest stone, Give me up, I truly have no use. Women are ***-dumpsters, thus sayeth the LORD. I think God's got timber in his eyes. The Great Triumph! sings like a hamster dying on a pinwheel. I really don't know what I know, but I'm glad for abstractness. There is meaning, there is anti-truth. Speak without wind. Death, pere, night, ear, truth, punk, stop, rire.
I laugh because there is no other way of ridding myself of this filth. The caress of a gentle mind comes in stages, like cancer. The ****** in the 5th key speaks with dialect and analect. Into-go, fantastical, a spectre,
But I guess I don't much believe in ghosts.
The hang glider comes from her mountain with the water of the gods to feed the foe, the toad that linches and seethes, sticking gratitude to her heart. Why is he? He should have been, but now he's gone. Shoot the white haired lady, she feels no pain,
I want lightning, a meaning, a triumph that sells pills to me in the back of a dusty van in the night, I want white hair and a balding mind, with nothing but you and your dye.
You are the poet's parts, it covers him. I am no one, and I think you know that. You can never be with me because you are in a slow decent into adulthood and I am becoming a child. I must understand, but there is pain.
White-washed hairdresser with a meaningless smile, Call me your man, listen to the words I say. I am loud and boastful, like a great animal I scream the truth. I have no home like the wounds, come all ye faithful, words are quite clear.
I want you.....
I want you..... so bad.
It's the delta blues I couldn't ignore.
There is meaning in the, there is a saltiness I can't ignore. Where is truth and the squabble? Where is understanding and the sacred? I soak in warmth, I bask in the insipid stories of deadly man and heartache and nothingness,
Gone, like a symbol, new, like the universe. Stocking that rip under my hands, real...
Touch, a gentleness, soft, harsh, and cold, be thee alone. Call no one, say NOTHING. Jealousy manifests, liver, the hardest stone, Give me up, I truly have no use. Women are ***-dumpsters, thus sayeth the LORD. I think God's got timber in his eyes. The Great Triumph! sings like a hamster dying on a pinwheel. I really don't know what I know, but I'm glad for abstractness. There is meaning, there is anti-truth. Speak without wind. Death, pere, night, ear, truth, punk, stop, rire.
I laugh because there is no other way of ridding myself of this filth. The caress of a gentle mind comes in stages, like cancer. The ****** in the 5th key speaks with dialect and analect. Into-go, fantastical, a spectre,
But I guess I don't much believe in ghosts.
