"I dream of a place with a better selection."
vamp around
cry attica! attica!
wine cellar floor
spilled to the last
lapping at the licentiousness
of theater number 4
theyre playing an ex rated version of my life
cabernet sauvignon
number 1-9-8-4
patinated stain of my bleach colored sores
I wanted to be a white boy
in a cathedral spun of gold
in an oasis of the vinaceous
the wine cellar floor.
I hate the mediums of society. friday nite at the movies and must see t.v. and current affairs and stars aglow. hate merely by the association of these things to the humans I hate the most. what I love should be mine to love - a hermit's love, an antiquated, arcane niche - and should be free from the dirty saucer eyes and grubby gonorrhea hands of the 9-5ers fucking in the frame of society's door. I ensconse the negligee of naughty things thrown out the door, within the cone of my illumined face, weaving latticework and a lyre's lore. give me something that can be mine. the stars are tinged and confuscated. everything to me, impassioned, have, by you, been depreciated. leave to me, upon my cellar floor, beside the puddle of precious merlot, a sublime entity that would be mine to divine. have your salinger and sex and scars and goodbyes. have your city and your stars and your moon and your skies. attuned to the clocks of a uniform lullabye. you can be a commie for humanity. give me my own world to explore.
"I dream of a face that is pure perfection."
I can't stop eating. I can't stop the vapid steamroller. I can't stop. stop.... stop. I can't stop myself from divine thievery. I'm a morose boy with two good shoes but lacking direction. I'd dash to the clinical white truck sitting at the streetcorner to buy ice cream and die if I knew I could do it without disappointment. but the sun melts the strawberry minaret of my cream to my cone and my spirit ebbs the same in the phantom tide of confuscated relief. oh banal sun, beat upon my slivered brows no more. time, I'm not your guinea pig. god, I'm not a golliwog for your little angel children. find another pawn.
my skin has an absinthium tinge. find another flavor.
cry attica! attica!
wine cellar floor
spilled to the last
lapping at the licentiousness
of theater number 4
theyre playing an ex rated version of my life
cabernet sauvignon
number 1-9-8-4
patinated stain of my bleach colored sores
I wanted to be a white boy
in a cathedral spun of gold
in an oasis of the vinaceous
the wine cellar floor.
I hate the mediums of society. friday nite at the movies and must see t.v. and current affairs and stars aglow. hate merely by the association of these things to the humans I hate the most. what I love should be mine to love - a hermit's love, an antiquated, arcane niche - and should be free from the dirty saucer eyes and grubby gonorrhea hands of the 9-5ers fucking in the frame of society's door. I ensconse the negligee of naughty things thrown out the door, within the cone of my illumined face, weaving latticework and a lyre's lore. give me something that can be mine. the stars are tinged and confuscated. everything to me, impassioned, have, by you, been depreciated. leave to me, upon my cellar floor, beside the puddle of precious merlot, a sublime entity that would be mine to divine. have your salinger and sex and scars and goodbyes. have your city and your stars and your moon and your skies. attuned to the clocks of a uniform lullabye. you can be a commie for humanity. give me my own world to explore.
"I dream of a face that is pure perfection."
I can't stop eating. I can't stop the vapid steamroller. I can't stop. stop.... stop. I can't stop myself from divine thievery. I'm a morose boy with two good shoes but lacking direction. I'd dash to the clinical white truck sitting at the streetcorner to buy ice cream and die if I knew I could do it without disappointment. but the sun melts the strawberry minaret of my cream to my cone and my spirit ebbs the same in the phantom tide of confuscated relief. oh banal sun, beat upon my slivered brows no more. time, I'm not your guinea pig. god, I'm not a golliwog for your little angel children. find another pawn.
my skin has an absinthium tinge. find another flavor.