Cerebral Affair
Burlesque Noir just hit the fan
and the room is now spinning
like leopard coats and vodka tonics and
I promise I will reduce you to nothing more than Conception
Destruction Unearthment and a Labeless Husk.
The medium through which I work is Prophetic Regulation
and through this sight Apple Girls will see the reason behind the worm.
She takes a bite and as you write down her fulfillment
in our death quota a pigeon flies through her lips
and pecks her heart out.
The softer you become the more bars your eyes will receive
until you can only see the yellow of the stoplight
and the white truck after it explodes through your windshield
and is snuggled inside your brain.
Six ounces of flesh for seven dollars too anybody who is interested in plucking shards of glass, tire, hot metal and paint flakes out of the body first.
Ten miles away a girl becomes center stage in Vanity and is put to waste by a respirating cave painting.
She asked the man on the bench
if she was unique and wonderful and pretty just like all the other
little girls out ice skating on mens tongues
and pulling out all the stops when it comes to love.
He told her he was hungry and they were hungry and back in 52
you had to eat your own frostbitten fingers to keep from emptying
the remains of your stomach in your sleeping bag and falling asleep
dead in your own vomit.
She went home and wept for the virtual absence of twilight when she needed it most.
Its a good thing you found him before a violation of public health
was committed. These sad-eyed boys just cant keep their wrists out
of the blenders. When they cry, we get rich, see my point Johnny?
In a spacious white room subsidiary comments were given by the blue boy to help with
the experiment. He gladly leant two ears and His Word to help
scrape the Old Testaments out from under the table.
He whispered Welcome Home in a feminine dialect only audible to soul mates and immolated souls.
He pronounced Experiment 314 Complete and went to bed with rocks crumbling down his windpipe
as he dreamed of her.
Neon arabesques out the windows and into the night sky
where hundreds of sickly girls are trying to squeeze through stars
so they can become food for the precious moon.
The alpenglow set sail over the thousands of telephone lines as lush-eyed blondes
rose from the smoke of their dreams and turned into angels as the first thrum of Cash
surged through their veins. Naughty boy slid down skid-row in order to join the soldiers
at the apex fire, just to see their arrogance work as an anodyne so they could rest in their seashells again.
Black Junk Exhaust kisses a thousand mouths a day, sighing in through their lungs like
tiny sparrows crooning lamentations too heavy for their hearts.
An effigy of an unnamed saint lay under her pillow night after night as a reminder that good
rarely is recognized and her proliferation of divinity is no excuse to love thyself.
Scrape the bone to a tune of Carpe-Noctum, with all the burns in her eyes you would think
she would have enough inner sight to fuse life and death together inside a test tube.
But the only glass she can get her hands on is too thickly smeared with rioting and a kaleidoscope of democratic autocrats to be of any use.
Pathos is not the answer for anyone but the Gray Queen who chooses to sleep with the chickens so that in the morning she can pluck the feathers off the abortions and cook herself a majestic meal. (She has been told that this will result in stigmatas in places she could never pronounce and a film that will coat her waif body like a cellophane scab. After ten years of incubation and the subconscious shedding of skin she will have become immortal.)
Her blood, and his blood beat to the music of snapping necks
and Burlesque Noir just hit the fan.
Burlesque Noir just hit the fan
and the room is now spinning
like leopard coats and vodka tonics and
I promise I will reduce you to nothing more than Conception
Destruction Unearthment and a Labeless Husk.
The medium through which I work is Prophetic Regulation
and through this sight Apple Girls will see the reason behind the worm.
She takes a bite and as you write down her fulfillment
in our death quota a pigeon flies through her lips
and pecks her heart out.
The softer you become the more bars your eyes will receive
until you can only see the yellow of the stoplight
and the white truck after it explodes through your windshield
and is snuggled inside your brain.
Six ounces of flesh for seven dollars too anybody who is interested in plucking shards of glass, tire, hot metal and paint flakes out of the body first.
Ten miles away a girl becomes center stage in Vanity and is put to waste by a respirating cave painting.
She asked the man on the bench
if she was unique and wonderful and pretty just like all the other
little girls out ice skating on mens tongues
and pulling out all the stops when it comes to love.
He told her he was hungry and they were hungry and back in 52
you had to eat your own frostbitten fingers to keep from emptying
the remains of your stomach in your sleeping bag and falling asleep
dead in your own vomit.
She went home and wept for the virtual absence of twilight when she needed it most.
Its a good thing you found him before a violation of public health
was committed. These sad-eyed boys just cant keep their wrists out
of the blenders. When they cry, we get rich, see my point Johnny?
In a spacious white room subsidiary comments were given by the blue boy to help with
the experiment. He gladly leant two ears and His Word to help
scrape the Old Testaments out from under the table.
He whispered Welcome Home in a feminine dialect only audible to soul mates and immolated souls.
He pronounced Experiment 314 Complete and went to bed with rocks crumbling down his windpipe
as he dreamed of her.
Neon arabesques out the windows and into the night sky
where hundreds of sickly girls are trying to squeeze through stars
so they can become food for the precious moon.
The alpenglow set sail over the thousands of telephone lines as lush-eyed blondes
rose from the smoke of their dreams and turned into angels as the first thrum of Cash
surged through their veins. Naughty boy slid down skid-row in order to join the soldiers
at the apex fire, just to see their arrogance work as an anodyne so they could rest in their seashells again.
Black Junk Exhaust kisses a thousand mouths a day, sighing in through their lungs like
tiny sparrows crooning lamentations too heavy for their hearts.
An effigy of an unnamed saint lay under her pillow night after night as a reminder that good
rarely is recognized and her proliferation of divinity is no excuse to love thyself.
Scrape the bone to a tune of Carpe-Noctum, with all the burns in her eyes you would think
she would have enough inner sight to fuse life and death together inside a test tube.
But the only glass she can get her hands on is too thickly smeared with rioting and a kaleidoscope of democratic autocrats to be of any use.
Pathos is not the answer for anyone but the Gray Queen who chooses to sleep with the chickens so that in the morning she can pluck the feathers off the abortions and cook herself a majestic meal. (She has been told that this will result in stigmatas in places she could never pronounce and a film that will coat her waif body like a cellophane scab. After ten years of incubation and the subconscious shedding of skin she will have become immortal.)
Her blood, and his blood beat to the music of snapping necks
and Burlesque Noir just hit the fan.
joxster9:
I really like this. Some very interesting lines in there, like flakes of silver teeth in kuchen.