'All That's Left is the Title' due mostly to Alanarchy's genius

Automatonic scriptures wither up into a brown spattering of words.
My addled mind appears to be watching a rose
that’s dying in time lapsing lenses. A broken dove's scream behind my ear,

fucking with sentences

overtopping like a slow buzz,
through blown speakers, and
the cold morning filters down to a creep. let it seep

felt the winds pick up
in helter/skelter traversing
into rhyme. into time line and some sort of
thought sign

Derailed this thinking-train.
and courses through this sleepless frame.
dabbles with written fame
Like some strange modern mosaic of Twain
endlessly this game,
played 24hours and never stays the same

It's said recognition never ends in shame.

yes it does but it depends on the pedigree of your name

your intro

your chat

do you give up something or do you bring it back
like a slave to stats

These numbered sepulchers that leech my this,
from my "that".

hold the lines bring a rhyme or leave it stacked
on carnivorous glimmer from the long fang and the rack

Exit endeavors, and Sexton shudders
rip the pulley from the counterbalance, the boat
from the rudder

Sans simple tools of recreation, shatter veneration
radio phantoms from televangelistic stations
Corduroy mazes
Instinct elevation, and still
we feed from the bottom of the muse tray, like
embattled crustations,

and the passion WAS there. It evaporated
like nature's pull on our Giovanni Heels.
Achilles kneels after some cut through his,
thinking they've broken the hero but
we'll keep spinning the wheels,
it's the very nature of the biz

fuck the pulleys and weight. Bring the deprivation and never satiate the mass policy
inscrutable Ptolemy writes a verse deep and terse yet never disputable in or without the very means

whenever did our views demonstrate heresy?
between you and me id think these lines to be ecstasy
like veritably
drug fed between lines
of course en Vino Veritas

for me

the truth is in wine like these wicked times we think
in these lyrical binds

to blame are the motherfuckin men stuck behind those rapid oceans of words toasted
or in deepest emotions
oceans exploding
out words of tough means
rampant or at least potent
eloaded
like a meaning rediscovered or belief gained in our bleeding
so as long as I’m breathing
ill kick ass in the morning and take names
in the evening

I wont deceive'em c'mon
c'mon world take a look at us now
you’re fucked aint'cha
I bet you feel so ridiculous now!