(no subject)
If i could kiss each vertebrae on my way to understanding you
I might just lose my grip on reality
I might just lose my balance and fall to the feet of creation
With the smile of a sadist
And the heart of a follied, witty, fool.
Trembling between voices of the 2nd degree
And the vices of the 3rd dimension
Leaves a hollow gateway
Crumbling beneath the pressure of cruel and subtle humidity in the cracks and seams
Offering a windchime lullaby
And a bagpipe eulogy are so bromide.
Waiting patiently for the effortless movements of nuance, and beauty
So many so many hopeless
So many romantics
So many hopeless romantics
But why must we disremember the romantically hopeless?
Ink-stained, tongue-tied
And utterly obliged by
Overdrawn, stammering
And temples of doom a'hammering
Pitfallen, heart-racing
Infrared desires meant for tracing
Gamut-running, sky-falling
Wandering fingertips blackened and appalling.
Dingy rings around the drain
There was a message left on the mirror in the blood of innocence
Painting the walls like a madman with a butchers knife
And a cerebellum full of pentachloraphenols.
She shows her fangs with the intimate delicacy of a classis Geisha
But before it all comes to fruition
There is dust and the wood-planks shake with a devastating, almost comical ease
This is not worship
This is not tribute
But we cannot say that it is nature
Just slithering tectonics of each flesh-eating complication.
But through the stained-glass window there is clarity
Locked within the womb of history
Time that traps and taps and raps the pane until it all shatters
Into bite-size pieces
And this is how we sharpen our tongues.
I might just lose my grip on reality
I might just lose my balance and fall to the feet of creation
With the smile of a sadist
And the heart of a follied, witty, fool.
Trembling between voices of the 2nd degree
And the vices of the 3rd dimension
Leaves a hollow gateway
Crumbling beneath the pressure of cruel and subtle humidity in the cracks and seams
Offering a windchime lullaby
And a bagpipe eulogy are so bromide.
Waiting patiently for the effortless movements of nuance, and beauty
So many so many hopeless
So many romantics
So many hopeless romantics
But why must we disremember the romantically hopeless?
Ink-stained, tongue-tied
And utterly obliged by
Overdrawn, stammering
And temples of doom a'hammering
Pitfallen, heart-racing
Infrared desires meant for tracing
Gamut-running, sky-falling
Wandering fingertips blackened and appalling.
Dingy rings around the drain
There was a message left on the mirror in the blood of innocence
Painting the walls like a madman with a butchers knife
And a cerebellum full of pentachloraphenols.
She shows her fangs with the intimate delicacy of a classis Geisha
But before it all comes to fruition
There is dust and the wood-planks shake with a devastating, almost comical ease
This is not worship
This is not tribute
But we cannot say that it is nature
Just slithering tectonics of each flesh-eating complication.
But through the stained-glass window there is clarity
Locked within the womb of history
Time that traps and taps and raps the pane until it all shatters
Into bite-size pieces
And this is how we sharpen our tongues.