Friday, December 10, 2010

no one cares about lyrics cause no one likes to read, but here are the lyrics again;

FUNERAL HOME MARIONETTES: Somnambulist screams into the carrion black reservoir. Edited to medicine, pain-living preferred to the unknown. Atypical reticence that leaves me to wonder what I ever wanted from them. Botfly tumblers up from alkaline wilderness. Fallout shadows flirting with lover flesh. Stared at but hidden like a concert hall crematorium. A crane left in a gelatinous skeletal state, distended belly in a lake of entrails, arsenic like sea-salt caking the doors of a river bottom pick-up. A doll head plucked off a wallpaper of ball gags. Check our hemoglobin for Aboriginal art. Caterpillars in bullet-cocoons that only mature through exit wounds, their flight patterns leaving a trace. Now painted in the smolder of a burning widow, Cloud-pointers damn pedophilia with their backs to the machete capes. The controlled wrath of cafeteria-pleasantries fooled you into a toll-free dream scape, orifice the one thought-barrier left to breach.

POSTCARDS FROM SOLITARY: Hope those hands rest well on the shoulders my waters once softened to clouds of skin. I'm paying cause now the moisture is corroding both of us from within. Dumbed down to patterns, excused to conspiracies, but reality is so much more simple; there are no rhymes. Nothing really bothers us, but we're told that is why we end when really we don't know one calamity from the next. Sub-alchemy from nil-chaoticians who can't see that tombs have passed them by. Hope those vultures stay perched on the shoulders your fingers once kneaded like clay, cause ever since the circles have been declared off limits they've been itching for their scavenger days. And they will come... boundaries mean less to them than the expurgating seeds that spill to the floor while forms of you trace along instigating memories. Strings will keep being threaded until the rope is thick enough to pull off my head. I won't beg.... pressure will make me what i am.... surviving glass grenades that call to mind the puzzles we eventually wear down to the calcium... down to ingredients.... to molecule cookers and their jubilation wakes... tiny blown-off bones like chameleons wading on the surface of open oil drums.

MAUSOLEUM LOTHARIO: quarantine applications went out today. bedsore portholes dimpled in the wind, scaring up a junkyard substitute for an unknown soldier’s tomb. we floss with veins since our bones went in backwards. calendar pages free falling like irradiated limbs. footsteps ring out like crackling chicken fat caught on an arm’s length of barb. every few years they say it’s their howl, obfuscating composition with message... embalming fluid with tetrotodoxin. AC/DC resurrections bringing us back kettle yelling mushroom gray.

DIVORCE MEDITATION: Confrontation via retreat. Rain ghosts along the graveled ribs. our flesh hung like crushed velvet off a battered starlet’s shoulders. the mocking cackles were as rich and right as an insubordinate’s tased nape. Grease paint leprosy impregnates the bubbled horizon, elongating the lip that will kill me. Cornered mid-vertigo by your disapearers, fingerprints desecrating their vernacular. I can’t deny the vacancy, only camouflage the epilepsy generation organs instigate.

THE MASOCHISTIAN: Reborn with flies on my face. Woman to the whimpers of the unreformed paroled. Mind webbed in the ribs of a neck-securring halo. Hung on nails a decade wide, sentenced to an unweaned infancy. Peeling in the zone, the organ flaps like clipped reels of film. Burlesque images from a leper colony. I've had nothing but future since then, anoited by icepick, mad and naked under the kissing flags. we listen as their souls crack, chilling indentations in waves that make the hinges hiss. cleansing hands casting shark-maws over lacquer-bathed features? The tagged, overwhelmed with rumored heavens, operate until the tract lights hum.

CONJUGAL APPARITION: kid gloves rake match heads. diapered malnourished savor the saccharin of intestinal worms. disrupting the milk-line, they cut their feet on the ground where the saucers dropped just to say they lost to the white mud. brain lathers vivisection mandibles. cat-o-nine cauterized erogenous zones. interphalangeal aurora borealis trimming the conjugal apparitions. maybe I crave this burn-ward void, but that doesn’t excuse you dribbling gasoline. you say it’s only because you want some sparks... but isn’t that how immolation starts?

CLOCK HALT: Someday you’ll show us all. I’ll be sure to watch the clock halt, reset itself in a vain attempt to catch up with the genius you swore was dormant. Well, where was I when planets realigned as to position themselves over your brow? Something tells me you’ve never known and the shadow-boxing finally got the best of you. Skulls would've been leveled if you were subjugate to a fraction of our undertakings, but now you're championing the former collective where once a whisper barely made it to crest? Well your past is failing to impress, as my present hasn't warped around me to appease your alleged relevance. Don’t tell me the future is in novelty cancellation anthems or workhorse minutes on the set of a movie no one will see. Naked cousins crossing eyelid horizons once she's been detailed in severed arm spoils, telling yourself they'll substitute in time. telling yourself time will finish what you start.

HYPNAGOGIC CAREGIVER: I wake up back first. Thrown out from laughing at the idea that I meant anything to her. Twice before she wilted; a counterpoint to my gorging on sandpaper grains. Smoking under umbrellas so the clouds her lips shape will yellow all skin but her own. Overcast peels back. White suns appear like kneecaps crowing the wounds of crouching legs. We were no heads, just faces with necks mingling in garbage tourists have blackened with value. Why wish for your love taps when time will batter the shingles in?

IRON LUNG DUST BOWL: Pity is a universal suture. Nonallopathic inertia tuning out lung. Alkaline that doesn't stop at the carotids, raising steel-stalks around the off-white oak. In your lifetime you will eat eight spiders while you sleep. No carefully warmed dishrags to wash off the mud. No fingerprints will take the blame for your wandering DNA. Shadows linger like dust bowls. Urine preserves your skin. Even in my memory you were a mirage. Hammer-blow the tape you wear so your glass skeleton will clatter delicately before the velvet intestines of a skin museum's closed doors. I never cared if it hurt. Modify the pair-slash so I can pretend we were never connected. Someday you'll learn to tell your shame apart from what it has been misdirectly christened. In time you'll know what it never was... and maybe then you will be forgiven.

TABLESPOON CATARACT: I can hear sounds around the back of my brain similar to crunching on bricks of salt. Skinned dogs cry blood at the edge of my eye, held open with clockwork of skewers. Heated needles up to the periphery with band-aids on her fingers; clumsy extensions of bamboo yellowed nails. Pinioned and taped to a revolving door, a mother flicks her child’s trembling lips. Aluminum plunges pus pregnant cysts before the box cutter. All scars will crawl along warped glass shavings, picked by hand from damp red carpets.

WOLF TICKET BOX OFFICE: Need is not generous. None is all reward. Eyes minus the talon delusions that only complicate the letting go. Leave me a maw where I can twist in the ganglia. Sometimes I feel like sweating. Why give it a name? Stylish grace is nothing but a fall that moves to fast for you to know the spike is there, waiting on hose to trim the crease that otherwise will not glow. I'm not in for escape, though abortion is fine. . Tell me what deceives your sleep into believing in the breaking day. I'll listen for footsteps. The intrusion sustains me.