this is not the end of the world (no, not even a little bit)
bagglevarger's theory of inversive magic (mairelon's remix)
I dream of disappointing words/ “this is not correct”/ my bundle of anger/lit to burn/ by my own incompetence/ “do better”/ drips with shame/ scarlet ribbons sliced from my breast/ more painful than any individual letter/ “unacceptable”/ this is true/ many of my Anglican lines/ their grammar skewed by Lewis Carroll/ are hexed by damp days/ and pots of tea/ “I don’t know what this is.”
My ignorance means to say/ “I don’t know how.”
k.n.m.
>our eyes overflow with india ink (our hands perfumed with salt)
There’s no way/all you need is love/ this is a battlefield/ such a Marathon/ or Waterloo, a conquest (perhaps) with lips of endless poison/ and empty hearts; you would be mean/ and we’d drink all the time/ this voracious draught/of knavish wine.
k.n.m
at her displeasure, these our actors play again
this is what you get/we're no karma police, it's true/but he's the patron saint of doing things the hard way/and all the not-okays you've pulled on you/these damp clouds rain out your parade/magic eight ball says try again/you'll get better as you go
draw a little faster/matching crosses on your tender wrists/endless blood circulates, lousy with ennui/this is what we get/for being young and old and maybe in between/it's still not permanent, but for a minute here/we ask ourselves, is this the best/we've ever been/and i'm afraid/ and hell, does it even really matter?
catching glimpses of the cross you wear/lonely in your principality of one/bankrupt on the Thames/ you've left your empire empty, just another mark/ in the annals of our history to bear/did you ask yourself, as your child clutches icons/idols of your wealth
draw a little faster/matching crosses on your tender wrists/endless blood circulates, lousy with ennui/this is what we get/for being young and old and maybe in between/it's still not permanent, but for a minute here/we ask ourselves, is this the best/we've ever been/ and i'm afraid/but hell, does it even really matter?
despite intoxicating circumnavigation/ you'll keep coming back you see/ this is what you'll never get/bound too tight, these modern seven veils/she wears for me/my hope chest gathers dust, you'll find miss havisham inside/waiting for her black parade/all in/we've been all the way/until yesterday/for a minute now, i know myself/can you please
draw a little faster/matching crosses on our tender wrists/endless blood circulates, lousy with ennui/this is what we get/for being young and old and maybe in between/it's still not permanent, but for a minute here/we ask ourselves, is this the best we've ever been/and i'm afraid/but hell, does it even really matter?
our pop punk pretties, seven score from god and glory/they tell ourselves/they tell ourselves the same
k.n.m