It's death worship, all of it. Your gods wheeling above; spiralling down into the pit of pathetic carrion you call life. Admonishing the vultures to tear away your fears with the promise of a better death. You are already rotting. Every one of you. Nothing but slurry clogging the gutters of decent folk who can't be reassured by empty platitudes of a clean sky. This is all rot. And oh, how we dance and pirouette amongst it all. Wouldn't dream of feigning smiles whilst carrying your dead weight through life's circus. A fête worse than death. So the carrion birds will feign whispers in raucous, howling tones as they build worthless futures amongst these bones...
If this is human nature, concrete it over. And have done. Just have done.
I like to play in open graves. The crawling things raise their fists and howl. I find that the soil clogs my throat in just such a way / as to drag the vowels through a twist of ruptured bowel; to rise, then decay, then away. Consonant cosmonauts choking on delay. The vultures have it right, sailing in under cover of night. Or staring you straight out in glare of day. They'll have your eyes away so as you don't need to blink the tears past.
One foot wrong versus this precipice - you're at least six feet down. Can you wiggle your toes? Let's fucking go. The all-consuming boogie of nucleus versus the rest of it. If the weather balloons we're all fucked.
Never was much one for recall. Cells is cells is cells is cells.
We could idle here whilst I rhyme that with Hel, but I'm sure we've all got shapes to throw. Let us stumble through the opening lines. Let us dance for the sake of the fact that once we can't we'll all be damned well wish we had.
I'm still toying with all the gods of men. I don't let them push me around. We've been around and around and around. Awaiting our chance to populate holes in the ground.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
