You paint yourself white
And fill in the noise
But they'll be something missing
They filled all their graves, built marble arcs skyward-breathing but still hidden from the world pinned in leather prisons, bound in paper chains. We're paring skin with simply-sable shades of idiocracy, shaving our pride along the long blade of debility. In-ability, wantonness.
These crafts are leitmotifs fragrant to the pulse-wound Willis. Two cats chatting of fugues in orange and grey, calico movements colouring portraits in oil and tuna and synecdoche.
You have tempest. Four courses of wind-worn, corporate paradigm rubbing tin foil to tin-pan flint, becoming flash in its raucous foreplay, tympanic in its groaning gestation.
Slim collusions of thought rotting into migratory television, a nature channel broadcast of brimming dys-originality, culminates in a ".org" confession of hypostatic force, gleaming concavity of mores, a waking personality dynamic in non-abundance.
They're too often too ready to laugh at a string but for all the unfortunate mysticism of vagueness and depravity, such odd jewelry of mechanism and Gogol-ular, parasitic capitulation. If you take all the venting, the auditory dumbling, what void there would be in context of the finite, unconscious ebb into dream. Something like cyrrilic Atlantics gorging on entire continents, shaving shorelines to sickle blades we break ourselves upon. Commit this to memory, ad momentum, the deep decline of corduroy rasping grey in elephant-sloughing skin, a tremble or tumour in the unconscionable eye as we fail to focus on the trundling underground sublime.
Somber, perhaps sanctified in a subtle aquamarine, paleolithography in a candid-born blood.
A capable, culpable cunt is so kitsch, a carnal median of sliding traffic where collision sounds so ugly and tired.
Red canonic words exchanged in heated glass eruptions like obsidian chips driving home along headlight glazed thighs. Some rotten world with chrome trim and patent-leather sin, here where peace is a fraction derived from gear-ratios, a calibration of just how well we are suspended before our heads hit the pavement.
She's leaving a contrail of language, an appalling pall that tucks into everyone's sleeve, and for such gossamer gowns dripping ichor sand, there's an incomparable beading. Like tile sheets, we're dendritic, climbing up oars, washing away in the sun, convivial conjunctiva of corporeal colossi comparatively complacent in their placemat-caddish lives.
There are six corollary rules to these axioms: by fist and skin, by tooth, by wind, by scales and chimes, by death, by this.
We are forced to make signs of our existence, nothing hidden in or about. Cavity open to the inconsolable, a finished gash, a fatal wound, a frown of your inconviction to love, lie, and liberate the vessel of its storm. Salt, serous, and sly a fold of jealous carnivore speaking entirely without tongue flit against teeth, an infatuous ribbon of dilettante dilemma, a conservative bliss, all the while courting peril, convulsing, vilifying. What murder is this, this hunger, this dear derogatory flight, this confused arbitration of limbs, this dendritic corruption as we dig into skin? How is your fear weighed and meted, does it bleed the same musk, mask the same sins in sex and grieving? We've elided this fissure, this grave fault, for another; you've shuddered and strained and blackened your eyes, sampling the light, chasing patterns in the surf.
A caffeine haemorrhage just leaking letters into contrails of language, clove-spit smoke trafficking horizontal dreams across a glass television screen. They stream achingly soft doors to morals invading, infiltrating, the woodenhouse grains of personal ideals, the barley-store beliefs that cook down your christianology searing in myths with misconstrued sciencology.
More than just physicality, we are forced to become and, in doing so, to fear the impossibility of self-same difference between numbers and letters, satellites and sun. No place to fall asleep, no place to arrive at inconclusivity.
You and I collide in cold-harbored somnia, isolation a dream of blue-black photographs taken in caffeine cities and swan dive public houses where brass taps and close tops tint the sky a liquid hue. Caffeine dreams, they say, caffeine hallucinations, caffeine doodles, and caffeine screams.
Three corners connecting one billion microcosmic tadems, a continual spinning of elemental axioms, S-shaped electron extrapolations grossing the jittery, side-long, rejuvenation of state of mind. Overbreed me, unbound parameters and stick them with syncopic chasms between-- the fine synaptic line stitched and sutured, sucked and sank. This is our misery cry for simple rights and unsubtle multiplication, idiomatic complexity just buried in misderivational thinking. I want sandcastles. But I'll leave you to build your fur-tapered towers, your empirical system of thigh and heat.
What municipality do you do good common to, while we whiten some lyrical grey verse, a minute ethic in the moral carol goading on, droning in. Weaving papier mache horses from dead ballast and coopers' scraps, whittling rungs into the flesh of each others' backs, we'll climb-- an ascension of decay and cluttered magnanimity, an arc de trauma erected to your fold and its fleece you entice behind.
We are all carriers of this thing, the disease we ellip-seize by the olives and wrack with our negligence, farrowing blackly blank offspring into a cult. Into the cleft.
Caffeine fever, caffeine seizure slackening the limply tongue fissure-deep in tangled subvernum sopping the wale, rifling the cord, our hands quenched for thirst of garrulous comedy, some feet fall aside the paradisio. Hell is other people, life purgation. Express the curvature of silt and sin and revolution in terms of linearity, in terms of convection, in caffeine vocabulary for caffeine people living with the roar of a thousand landslid cities, of a million caffeine dins, caffeine drums. Rising up. Up.
And fill in the noise
But they'll be something missing
They filled all their graves, built marble arcs skyward-breathing but still hidden from the world pinned in leather prisons, bound in paper chains. We're paring skin with simply-sable shades of idiocracy, shaving our pride along the long blade of debility. In-ability, wantonness.
These crafts are leitmotifs fragrant to the pulse-wound Willis. Two cats chatting of fugues in orange and grey, calico movements colouring portraits in oil and tuna and synecdoche.
You have tempest. Four courses of wind-worn, corporate paradigm rubbing tin foil to tin-pan flint, becoming flash in its raucous foreplay, tympanic in its groaning gestation.
Slim collusions of thought rotting into migratory television, a nature channel broadcast of brimming dys-originality, culminates in a ".org" confession of hypostatic force, gleaming concavity of mores, a waking personality dynamic in non-abundance.
They're too often too ready to laugh at a string but for all the unfortunate mysticism of vagueness and depravity, such odd jewelry of mechanism and Gogol-ular, parasitic capitulation. If you take all the venting, the auditory dumbling, what void there would be in context of the finite, unconscious ebb into dream. Something like cyrrilic Atlantics gorging on entire continents, shaving shorelines to sickle blades we break ourselves upon. Commit this to memory, ad momentum, the deep decline of corduroy rasping grey in elephant-sloughing skin, a tremble or tumour in the unconscionable eye as we fail to focus on the trundling underground sublime.
Somber, perhaps sanctified in a subtle aquamarine, paleolithography in a candid-born blood.
A capable, culpable cunt is so kitsch, a carnal median of sliding traffic where collision sounds so ugly and tired.
Red canonic words exchanged in heated glass eruptions like obsidian chips driving home along headlight glazed thighs. Some rotten world with chrome trim and patent-leather sin, here where peace is a fraction derived from gear-ratios, a calibration of just how well we are suspended before our heads hit the pavement.
She's leaving a contrail of language, an appalling pall that tucks into everyone's sleeve, and for such gossamer gowns dripping ichor sand, there's an incomparable beading. Like tile sheets, we're dendritic, climbing up oars, washing away in the sun, convivial conjunctiva of corporeal colossi comparatively complacent in their placemat-caddish lives.
There are six corollary rules to these axioms: by fist and skin, by tooth, by wind, by scales and chimes, by death, by this.
We are forced to make signs of our existence, nothing hidden in or about. Cavity open to the inconsolable, a finished gash, a fatal wound, a frown of your inconviction to love, lie, and liberate the vessel of its storm. Salt, serous, and sly a fold of jealous carnivore speaking entirely without tongue flit against teeth, an infatuous ribbon of dilettante dilemma, a conservative bliss, all the while courting peril, convulsing, vilifying. What murder is this, this hunger, this dear derogatory flight, this confused arbitration of limbs, this dendritic corruption as we dig into skin? How is your fear weighed and meted, does it bleed the same musk, mask the same sins in sex and grieving? We've elided this fissure, this grave fault, for another; you've shuddered and strained and blackened your eyes, sampling the light, chasing patterns in the surf.
A caffeine haemorrhage just leaking letters into contrails of language, clove-spit smoke trafficking horizontal dreams across a glass television screen. They stream achingly soft doors to morals invading, infiltrating, the woodenhouse grains of personal ideals, the barley-store beliefs that cook down your christianology searing in myths with misconstrued sciencology.
More than just physicality, we are forced to become and, in doing so, to fear the impossibility of self-same difference between numbers and letters, satellites and sun. No place to fall asleep, no place to arrive at inconclusivity.
You and I collide in cold-harbored somnia, isolation a dream of blue-black photographs taken in caffeine cities and swan dive public houses where brass taps and close tops tint the sky a liquid hue. Caffeine dreams, they say, caffeine hallucinations, caffeine doodles, and caffeine screams.
Three corners connecting one billion microcosmic tadems, a continual spinning of elemental axioms, S-shaped electron extrapolations grossing the jittery, side-long, rejuvenation of state of mind. Overbreed me, unbound parameters and stick them with syncopic chasms between-- the fine synaptic line stitched and sutured, sucked and sank. This is our misery cry for simple rights and unsubtle multiplication, idiomatic complexity just buried in misderivational thinking. I want sandcastles. But I'll leave you to build your fur-tapered towers, your empirical system of thigh and heat.
What municipality do you do good common to, while we whiten some lyrical grey verse, a minute ethic in the moral carol goading on, droning in. Weaving papier mache horses from dead ballast and coopers' scraps, whittling rungs into the flesh of each others' backs, we'll climb-- an ascension of decay and cluttered magnanimity, an arc de trauma erected to your fold and its fleece you entice behind.
We are all carriers of this thing, the disease we ellip-seize by the olives and wrack with our negligence, farrowing blackly blank offspring into a cult. Into the cleft.
Caffeine fever, caffeine seizure slackening the limply tongue fissure-deep in tangled subvernum sopping the wale, rifling the cord, our hands quenched for thirst of garrulous comedy, some feet fall aside the paradisio. Hell is other people, life purgation. Express the curvature of silt and sin and revolution in terms of linearity, in terms of convection, in caffeine vocabulary for caffeine people living with the roar of a thousand landslid cities, of a million caffeine dins, caffeine drums. Rising up. Up.
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