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on nows,up till nows,nouns,alcohol and crude sundae - and you you just sit around & ask for ashtrays,can't you reach?

Nov. 25th, 2005

09:21 am - on nows,up till nows,nouns,alcohol and crude sundae

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a million people i don't want to see or hear from again a million dead legs like insect bits on the lawn or the grass and a soft noise of deflation that sears and a grim setting of mouths and clicking machines and whirling blades and tortured brows and overcast and parasite and filled with metaphysical bile the music of your voice retches harmony and a torn scrap nail hair tooth bone doll fragment lights up and looks forgotten with people together and people apart and smiles that grope the face looking at the rock saying the grit between your teeth and beading sweat to shit out the grit between your brain and you glue small triumphs to low men with heavy trophies and burden armloads and in such a short space of time 'for no one we are blameless' all cut up on your back with trainmarks your frail bones which snap under my breath and whittle each other down to bloody points pouring bloody pints on a dead stage of snow and carcass with blackers flapping down croaking eulogy to the eyeless yesterday who calls his character the symbol he represents and bakes his little hat of friends into beehives around him sitting smoking pretty girl legs trying to fathom cool but waking up dead one day with an organ in his throat and if i point and say vapid at him you will spring defensive and point at his horde of days gone by well i burnt all of mine so there's a group of people laughing each one of them growing rippling muscles beyond control choking on them and bleeding out the neck around the fine cords taken from violins in gmajor out of car windows onto forgotten shoulders in bottomless carparks where bailterspace never shoot their videos along with those fingers from above as you look up the sky a mass of guillotined heads fat bitches you slept with and pigeons on one leg whose image you stole corrupted and fed to the fuzz and there's razormen in your haircut looking longingly at the fringe festival trying to pick up a bullet or a pretty little cancer to introduce to your pa but you can't run forever much as you'd like to carve out a box for yourself or fall down winded in the sand waiting for the crack of the rifles in pursuit or the wolf tearing holes in your belly as you look up on a face like your own kicking mud in your eyes and grappling with ashamed hackney detectives or edward franklin aimes who screms a tortured black blood curdling horrible gut wrenching closet in a dark storm scream and it's feather to the wind and death on your handlebar and fuck off i want to leave you a wilting beauty at a tombstone and burning matches and tall flags and green faces of those who peeked inside the casket and a tulip that flowers in a cellar and pointy noses that slice young lovers and fangs with windows into men's souls and girls that smile and don't put out and clothes that burn labels onto your skin and leave you running in docklands and badlands and minefields with up against it and the runaway hightail life social here we are what we do who we see think talk to look around at the sky have a glass of milk a kick or a chaperone maybe sit down on a tuba of reference and sensation and howl and howl and howl with vengeance and wistful glance.

Current Mood: deduce it.punk.
Current Music: zilch