The Last Noblesse
If I only had an ounce of faith then the fairness wouldn't seem to falter when sun shifts to rise and the strains of being seem to scream you've got only one hand left. So leave. Just let it lose itself in the middle of the weekend or road. One more night-time terror trick to taste the time spent in the whispering gasp of that addictive, prescriptive sad and ugly little mess, your heart. Your lungs, your liver, your brain. They all shovel the shit and bubble with the pus of your stupid little fairy tales and social conversations. And I in my tepid rage, and her in her cunt. I could really care less. Post. Pre. Past. Present. wkahwkahwkahwkah Don't you understand anymore Cherry? Yeah, they got him too. No, the typewriter wasn't wondering what the eyes ever saw. Aren't you?
Long, sad letters numbers children fathers. You could be an entire world of excess, an entire planet full of feathers and guillotines. Marble in the bank. Great big slabs. Every bitter pill. Great big lies. You in your gown and really how many do you need? Bags? Shoes? Lives? Droughts? Take it and fly. Make sure you cut me out of the will. I know I used to be. If it's not done already. I didn't want that chest of drawers filled with dirty notes and watch faces covered in mold lookin up at mine like babes in the cradle searching for answers and love that I would never give, deliver, try or even clean for anyway. Anyway, I'll be going and if you happen to catch the moon in your hair make sure you wash it out right away. It's not good for you to be so desirable.
Half travelogue/Half lame-jazz beat. The square of the righteousness you feel you can force down your throat must burn the breasts of the smaller kids down at the prattling park where the monkeys wrench and vomit their masterpieces like soiled artists fancy in their downhomehellholes. Well. Oh, and if they were to fall then maybe Richard III would have their holes filled with hot wax. Don't want any mishaps. Just need silence. Just need cleanliness. Best to keep up appearances. Even when you've started to decay. But, even the dead need respect. Well God Bless the. Mincemeat, what a waste, don't you think she'll be full after some while? Well, oh hell. A standing army in a crochet needle, swinging on a hammock. A dog, left in a pen, choking on its own visions, rollicking in its own stench, mushroomed, head alone, tongue splayed, out, like the whore of a virgin, ripping the sleeves, ordering the grapes, licking the wax.
Directly from the orifices. Each and every one. Dirty girl, that one.
And, what of the boy? Well, whatnot? Doesn't his ripple turn the nipple into its housing-house full of jelly and pat? Don't arouse his arms or arm his answers. He's got to sweat it all out.
He needs to make up his mind, then. Kennedy or Castro. Both ways. AC/DC. Doesn't work in politics. Unless you want to win! Get him a drink/fuck/line/kite. Get off of me. Get. Swallowing sticks in summer time like layers of applesauce left out to rot.
A variation on a theme. Dimples. Twits. Smiles. Asses.
Oh, but don't you like his name? Complete adoration. I could swear I know the face. I could swear to the LORD above and be damned if I might if I may if I will I will. And then you wonder why the pavement is so rich. And then you attempt an axiom. Make oneself superior in power, loftiness of soul, in contempt. Contempt. Constantly, ever so, for when. The dodginess of that fuck over there. Who? Orca fat. Ah. Backing him up. Had his arm around her. And the other? Petting her head. Time to get out of the pool. I said.
Retired or expired in the beginning man made god because He was too stupid to think of anything else. At the same time drug the bitches around by their hair, had their way. Settled through clubs, fists, cock and all. Well enough. Well! In the end god made man commit horrid crimes and think a little bit less. A lot. A lot. A lot. Layovers in Utah, goodness, why there? Well, who could change it? The mayor? The steam of the drang in the cage where the pits of the rinds don't listen to reason like anyone does? Like anyone does. In the first place, in the second style, in the missionary position. Vanillin. Villain. Viety. Very well.
And they destroyed the rest said it wouldn't keep so why try. Knick-knock. Tick-tock. Play it again. Tick-tock. Knick-knock. Oh, no, fuck all. Theirs was a simple pain:
All tied up at morning.
Every single shot in the light.
A lamppost with a layer of deceit in its spots.
Rested up for fair enough digressions leavening shouts.
Middling despair and raucous/rawkus recollections of rhymed resistance.
To consequence and.
The scroll or the rodent left left of west in a hurry. I consider this.
And so wherein, the daylight meanders and you slander your host with your rings on the fingers that have never belonged and the amphetamine-like trance of your mother's own who would have lived had it not been for the brusque cannon balls bringing the effort into not. Wherein the candle-gilded furnace burns like brevity in the spine. Wherein the ample zoftig bust of the reeking, unhinged trap, collecting the grease of the hours lays. In waiting, wherein the lecherous and faulty come to practice and never sound anything but beautiful while climbing stairs. One, two, three at a time. We never have enough time, wherein, we never have too much time too. Zaftig just the same. It's all milk and udders. Utterly despicable. So blame the courant.
Wherein, we're in! He said, oh he's just been drinking. On one of those for a while. A drunk or a stink? Marinated. Marinating himself for the witching hour where that long black veil and farmer's implement can fully digest the shit that he's been shoveling all the livelong day. God save the.
Chubby babies. Cool it down. Open up the hydrant. Open up your mouth, now the rest. Ah, very good. I hope you feel it all at once. Can you? Yes. Too much. God, no. Rest assured this will all be over very quickly. Well that's a shame. I kid. Don't worry, this isn't a labcoat and I don't have a press. Just press right there. Ok. Thank you. All done? Yes sir. Yes ma'am. If you will. Step down, I know. Step, step.
Fall! Fall! lakeruntimestep oh we don't have the money. We never. Do. I know. I know. Too much. Too much! Can the epistles feel the heat or do they just burn with their stupid faith in a jar like the rest of them? All the idiots with their glassy eyes and misplaced loves? Every joker with the clown on their shoulders, signalling to the shadowwwws that that's not good enough, that they need more mystery, more romance, more irrational bollocks and bull. Shit. Every one of them. Faith in a fire, in a jar, in their comfort. But maybe it helps. And maybe it hurts. Maybe. Yeah, well, everyone has a little.
Oh no, I haven't an ounce.
Not even in the flag? The rag? Which one? All of them.
Not even in the heart? Why, it just bleeds and beats and then stops. One before the other. Mainly. Sometimes both at once. That's about the best, I'd dare. To say it? Well, then. Why? I did. Don't you understand. Don't. You.
I heard the prophet who I don't believe but I would like to tell me that it would be from exsanguination. How beautiful. Like a fountain of a man, trapped in the calamity of his expiration but melting so softly like a wax figurine filled with salt. And, don't you forget, when I leave it is on my own terms. When I leave you'll know and I'll make you feel me go.
And effortless, like dressed up desertion basking in the baroque glow of the trickling noseblood, fresh from a fucking Fuck You and What Now, desire like raindrops, falling on a porch, some mid-Winter daydream of eloquence uncouth but pretending to be the realistic decision made in high-office towers where the world is run by men in their starches and women in undignified positions like awkward Aunts running rings around their rosaries, such worthless beads, even if grandmother bled trying to pray, the sour of the harrowing flesh on the bone, where dry bones led lavender thoughts into submission and occidents ran up bills on borrowed time, aching for thanks and longing for tomorrow, the words on the lips of the crying fell short.
And there was never revision and I never cared once for you. I faked the entire thing. I did it all (including this) for the response I would get. I don't think you should be weary of anything or everything but don't trust a bit of it either. Don't be absurd. He's just had a little too much loneliness. Oh, well sod off, I can do it myself and I never needed the parchment because the apples fell before Eve and Adam never fucked her anyway. It was me. It was all me. I am become fuck all I feel.
And the saviour was never going to come. Not like lovers in forbidden sheets on their parents' beds suckling for absolution in the spirit of the lastbound train to the darkest corner of the dirtiest city where the crime rate hovers around your head like Ayyub, waiting for God to try one more trial, one last tribulation. The cruel gnat, always buzzing, never allowing, never backing down, alone with his inhumane tests and never feeling the pain of the world he created. Say you're sorry about the moon and sun and stars and the day we were born. Say it now or I'll keep twisting you deluded, selfish fuck. You vain, pregnant twit. Say it. Amen.
Ah.
And the nightwolves were lucky. While the scars on his feet were bold. While the stars in the dark sky look down where he laid bullets into backs. Father, who art in prison, don't you speak to me. Thy Kingdom come, it shall be done in Detroit as it is in Beverly Hills. Ha! And the stench from the pages and pages of beasts were contracting and convulsing. And the tears that were produced by the growing, engorged, throbbing hard truth. Veritas. But you knew what I was thinking of. And you knew Who I was thinking on. And you in your dialect and me in my crash. And you coming down and I coming on. Your faith is disgusting. I am disgusted.
It is a good thing that I don't believe in prophecy. It is a good thing that I am not with child. Weerwockydahling. Yessinosomuch. Mh! Fancy yourself in a stripped down all beat up lackluster finish of an automobile hurtling itself gently through the scabbed up pretenses and portenses of bottomless abandon wrapped in an ocean of conceit that tries to tell the stories of the panthers who were lost in the accident of teeth tethered to volleys at once and at last while scampering the bottle of a friend out at sea, found there because and shrouded by the enigma of a ghost that no one ever saw because it never existed and never will but was scaring the souls out of the sillytownspeople and pineapples for ages out of a concern for their laundry lists and pocketbooks and boxers in the ring whose eyes hadn't cut and whose fists hadn't felled any or the other for quite some time. A snake eating its own face.
Yes, and no. And maybe so. Like mother used to say. After of course, my first memory. Before the last. Somewhere in between. No, not there. And, not while you kneel, no matter what you are doing. No matter who you've got to pray to and no matter what sacrifice you offer. Yes, it is all steeped in such silliness really. A bit of madness. A bit of love. Completely faithful in the lack of faith, carrying on, like torn sails in the wind and reason above all, wringing hands of things they'd rather not mention and would all too eagerly try to forget.
Long, sad letters numbers children fathers. You could be an entire world of excess, an entire planet full of feathers and guillotines. Marble in the bank. Great big slabs. Every bitter pill. Great big lies. You in your gown and really how many do you need? Bags? Shoes? Lives? Droughts? Take it and fly. Make sure you cut me out of the will. I know I used to be. If it's not done already. I didn't want that chest of drawers filled with dirty notes and watch faces covered in mold lookin up at mine like babes in the cradle searching for answers and love that I would never give, deliver, try or even clean for anyway. Anyway, I'll be going and if you happen to catch the moon in your hair make sure you wash it out right away. It's not good for you to be so desirable.
Half travelogue/Half lame-jazz beat. The square of the righteousness you feel you can force down your throat must burn the breasts of the smaller kids down at the prattling park where the monkeys wrench and vomit their masterpieces like soiled artists fancy in their downhomehellholes. Well. Oh, and if they were to fall then maybe Richard III would have their holes filled with hot wax. Don't want any mishaps. Just need silence. Just need cleanliness. Best to keep up appearances. Even when you've started to decay. But, even the dead need respect. Well God Bless the. Mincemeat, what a waste, don't you think she'll be full after some while? Well, oh hell. A standing army in a crochet needle, swinging on a hammock. A dog, left in a pen, choking on its own visions, rollicking in its own stench, mushroomed, head alone, tongue splayed, out, like the whore of a virgin, ripping the sleeves, ordering the grapes, licking the wax.
Directly from the orifices. Each and every one. Dirty girl, that one.
And, what of the boy? Well, whatnot? Doesn't his ripple turn the nipple into its housing-house full of jelly and pat? Don't arouse his arms or arm his answers. He's got to sweat it all out.
He needs to make up his mind, then. Kennedy or Castro. Both ways. AC/DC. Doesn't work in politics. Unless you want to win! Get him a drink/fuck/line/kite. Get off of me. Get. Swallowing sticks in summer time like layers of applesauce left out to rot.
A variation on a theme. Dimples. Twits. Smiles. Asses.
Oh, but don't you like his name? Complete adoration. I could swear I know the face. I could swear to the LORD above and be damned if I might if I may if I will I will. And then you wonder why the pavement is so rich. And then you attempt an axiom. Make oneself superior in power, loftiness of soul, in contempt. Contempt. Constantly, ever so, for when. The dodginess of that fuck over there. Who? Orca fat. Ah. Backing him up. Had his arm around her. And the other? Petting her head. Time to get out of the pool. I said.
Retired or expired in the beginning man made god because He was too stupid to think of anything else. At the same time drug the bitches around by their hair, had their way. Settled through clubs, fists, cock and all. Well enough. Well! In the end god made man commit horrid crimes and think a little bit less. A lot. A lot. A lot. Layovers in Utah, goodness, why there? Well, who could change it? The mayor? The steam of the drang in the cage where the pits of the rinds don't listen to reason like anyone does? Like anyone does. In the first place, in the second style, in the missionary position. Vanillin. Villain. Viety. Very well.
And they destroyed the rest said it wouldn't keep so why try. Knick-knock. Tick-tock. Play it again. Tick-tock. Knick-knock. Oh, no, fuck all. Theirs was a simple pain:
All tied up at morning.
Every single shot in the light.
A lamppost with a layer of deceit in its spots.
Rested up for fair enough digressions leavening shouts.
Middling despair and raucous/rawkus recollections of rhymed resistance.
To consequence and.
The scroll or the rodent left left of west in a hurry. I consider this.
And so wherein, the daylight meanders and you slander your host with your rings on the fingers that have never belonged and the amphetamine-like trance of your mother's own who would have lived had it not been for the brusque cannon balls bringing the effort into not. Wherein the candle-gilded furnace burns like brevity in the spine. Wherein the ample zoftig bust of the reeking, unhinged trap, collecting the grease of the hours lays. In waiting, wherein the lecherous and faulty come to practice and never sound anything but beautiful while climbing stairs. One, two, three at a time. We never have enough time, wherein, we never have too much time too. Zaftig just the same. It's all milk and udders. Utterly despicable. So blame the courant.
Wherein, we're in! He said, oh he's just been drinking. On one of those for a while. A drunk or a stink? Marinated. Marinating himself for the witching hour where that long black veil and farmer's implement can fully digest the shit that he's been shoveling all the livelong day. God save the.
Chubby babies. Cool it down. Open up the hydrant. Open up your mouth, now the rest. Ah, very good. I hope you feel it all at once. Can you? Yes. Too much. God, no. Rest assured this will all be over very quickly. Well that's a shame. I kid. Don't worry, this isn't a labcoat and I don't have a press. Just press right there. Ok. Thank you. All done? Yes sir. Yes ma'am. If you will. Step down, I know. Step, step.
Fall! Fall! lakeruntimestep oh we don't have the money. We never. Do. I know. I know. Too much. Too much! Can the epistles feel the heat or do they just burn with their stupid faith in a jar like the rest of them? All the idiots with their glassy eyes and misplaced loves? Every joker with the clown on their shoulders, signalling to the shadowwwws that that's not good enough, that they need more mystery, more romance, more irrational bollocks and bull. Shit. Every one of them. Faith in a fire, in a jar, in their comfort. But maybe it helps. And maybe it hurts. Maybe. Yeah, well, everyone has a little.
Oh no, I haven't an ounce.
Not even in the flag? The rag? Which one? All of them.
Not even in the heart? Why, it just bleeds and beats and then stops. One before the other. Mainly. Sometimes both at once. That's about the best, I'd dare. To say it? Well, then. Why? I did. Don't you understand. Don't. You.
I heard the prophet who I don't believe but I would like to tell me that it would be from exsanguination. How beautiful. Like a fountain of a man, trapped in the calamity of his expiration but melting so softly like a wax figurine filled with salt. And, don't you forget, when I leave it is on my own terms. When I leave you'll know and I'll make you feel me go.
And effortless, like dressed up desertion basking in the baroque glow of the trickling noseblood, fresh from a fucking Fuck You and What Now, desire like raindrops, falling on a porch, some mid-Winter daydream of eloquence uncouth but pretending to be the realistic decision made in high-office towers where the world is run by men in their starches and women in undignified positions like awkward Aunts running rings around their rosaries, such worthless beads, even if grandmother bled trying to pray, the sour of the harrowing flesh on the bone, where dry bones led lavender thoughts into submission and occidents ran up bills on borrowed time, aching for thanks and longing for tomorrow, the words on the lips of the crying fell short.
And there was never revision and I never cared once for you. I faked the entire thing. I did it all (including this) for the response I would get. I don't think you should be weary of anything or everything but don't trust a bit of it either. Don't be absurd. He's just had a little too much loneliness. Oh, well sod off, I can do it myself and I never needed the parchment because the apples fell before Eve and Adam never fucked her anyway. It was me. It was all me. I am become fuck all I feel.
And the saviour was never going to come. Not like lovers in forbidden sheets on their parents' beds suckling for absolution in the spirit of the lastbound train to the darkest corner of the dirtiest city where the crime rate hovers around your head like Ayyub, waiting for God to try one more trial, one last tribulation. The cruel gnat, always buzzing, never allowing, never backing down, alone with his inhumane tests and never feeling the pain of the world he created. Say you're sorry about the moon and sun and stars and the day we were born. Say it now or I'll keep twisting you deluded, selfish fuck. You vain, pregnant twit. Say it. Amen.
Ah.
And the nightwolves were lucky. While the scars on his feet were bold. While the stars in the dark sky look down where he laid bullets into backs. Father, who art in prison, don't you speak to me. Thy Kingdom come, it shall be done in Detroit as it is in Beverly Hills. Ha! And the stench from the pages and pages of beasts were contracting and convulsing. And the tears that were produced by the growing, engorged, throbbing hard truth. Veritas. But you knew what I was thinking of. And you knew Who I was thinking on. And you in your dialect and me in my crash. And you coming down and I coming on. Your faith is disgusting. I am disgusted.
It is a good thing that I don't believe in prophecy. It is a good thing that I am not with child. Weerwockydahling. Yessinosomuch. Mh! Fancy yourself in a stripped down all beat up lackluster finish of an automobile hurtling itself gently through the scabbed up pretenses and portenses of bottomless abandon wrapped in an ocean of conceit that tries to tell the stories of the panthers who were lost in the accident of teeth tethered to volleys at once and at last while scampering the bottle of a friend out at sea, found there because and shrouded by the enigma of a ghost that no one ever saw because it never existed and never will but was scaring the souls out of the sillytownspeople and pineapples for ages out of a concern for their laundry lists and pocketbooks and boxers in the ring whose eyes hadn't cut and whose fists hadn't felled any or the other for quite some time. A snake eating its own face.
Yes, and no. And maybe so. Like mother used to say. After of course, my first memory. Before the last. Somewhere in between. No, not there. And, not while you kneel, no matter what you are doing. No matter who you've got to pray to and no matter what sacrifice you offer. Yes, it is all steeped in such silliness really. A bit of madness. A bit of love. Completely faithful in the lack of faith, carrying on, like torn sails in the wind and reason above all, wringing hands of things they'd rather not mention and would all too eagerly try to forget.