I’m not sure if Mercury was in retrograde or if Sega was in genesis, but you slipped an unwelcome touch into my orbit & I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.
The Proclaimers hummed in the background as the aunties shrugged…
“Some people are born with tragedy in their blood.”
The nooseman approaches & with surrender on my lips, I say: “Sew me into the creases of your hemlocked hood.”
Tiny holes cut for beady gapes.
Do. Not. Look. Away.
The moon is wailing in chorus with mothers & brothers in hidden crypts over mountains of headless children born into snake pits.
800-588-2300…EMPIRE…today is the day we set you on fire. More cobra with desire until you suffocate on centuries of soul weight.
The ground opens up & the universe obliterates.
A spare bedroom tea set gathers dust in shadow of craven lust for more & more & more. The **** of a boy & the **** of the world. Holy rage steeped to liberation. Comrades healing together with blades unfurled.
No longer will we cower & beg for a piece of what’s already ours. The serpent’s spine rotting on concrete.
All hail the death of tyranny.
Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 10:11 AM UTC
I’m not sure if Mercury was in retrograde or if Sega was in genesis, but you slipped an unwelcome touch into my orbit & I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.
The Proclaimers hummed in the background as the aunties shrugged…
“Some people are born with tragedy in their blood.”
The nooseman approaches & with surrender on my lips, I say: “Sew me into the creases of your hemlocked hood.”
Tiny holes cut for beady gapes.
Do. Not. Look. Away.
The moon is wailing in chorus with mothers & brothers in hidden crypts over mountains of headless children born into snake pits.
800-588-2300…EMPIRE…today is the day we set you on fire. More cobra with desire until you suffocate on centuries of soul weight.
The ground opens up & the universe obliterates.
A spare bedroom tea set gathers dust in shadow of craven lust for more & more & more. The **** of a boy & the **** of the world. Holy rage steeped to liberation. Comrades healing together with blades unfurled.
No longer will we cower & beg for a piece of what’s already ours. The serpent’s spine rotting on concrete.
All hail the death of tyranny.
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