I burn churches in smirk-less lurching over merchants, munching of the serpents tongue.
High strung, in that i do not care to bare your boredom, as it butchers brilliance, in its limits, with its head in the basket.
Basking, in the glory, of the goriest of stories, chopped and divided into categories to fill fantasies with fucked up tragedies, but i would rather be, real today.
The only message conveyed, is a hole in a heart, as i fillet it in parts, and say things i may regret.
Pay to sing it forward in part, by starting a fire while engorged in the sky with the contempt of the electorate, upset with, what can never be.
We shall march with torches upon the streets of the elite, with scorched heads in hand, our blind demands met, in the onset of opulence, opinionating in its opposition, of decisions made by more driven villains deciding the dying days, in a daze of dastardly dozing, through the destruction of deities while frozen asleep.
Press the buttons, altering the functions of mass consumption to the cause, locked in the paws of alliteracy, and stalling in the calling for casualties in angry eruptions of my assumptions literally killing to get out of me.
Sadly signalling the suicide of silent stars from afar seeding the centuries of life.
Get it wrong to get it right.
Someone has to die tonite.