Monday, June 20, 2011

Incoherant Ramblings From The Corner

Fresh air has been giving me the bends

Home-sick for the deep end of polluted seas

Where I would put cigarettes out on my tongue

Then lick the prom queen in places she felt uncomfortable

God knows I'm too poor for the courtship

We all end up in the whale's stomach anyway

And you can't pay your way out of that

I personally always used a hatchet or two

A little dull from the blood of part-time friends

But it always did the job and left me with plenty of food

Gnawing on guts in candlelight with another serial killer

They always think this will be the night I fall to them

When I cut myself up worse than they ever could

Chunks of me buried in isolated specks of time

With a small tombstone quoting a sentimental song on each one

Any search hound will run terrified of the smell

It resembles rigor mortis under gallons of rain

Or a horde of zombies frolicking in a garden

Where everything goes to die except for emotion

That fucker will live despite holocaust, meteorites, and bombs

Lingering like the ghost of a cheated and diseased lover

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