All Hands, Bury Your Dead

Last morning I woke up in a nightmare
where I dreamt I disappeared
into something they call success;
with handmaids stitching comas inside our heads
and sweating through eras:

"She screams like a siren inside the workshop
while she throws glass-heart bombs out to the playground
the carefully constructed shrapnals shatter inevitably as they come close to the horizon.
Each time-bomb catastrophe is post-marked and processed
crafted out of apple-cores and dressed in trash.
These time-dependent glass-bombs are labelled

"We Are All Winners In A Trophy Store"

Success, as I was told she was called, had hands of a self-gratifyer; muscular and excersized
The type of hands that are plaqued upon highschools,
The type of hands that could craft these glass-heart bombs,
and delicatly place them beneath my pillow.

I swear, in my shivers, I heard a succubi scream...


"I Want To Fuck You Where I Don't Belong"


The gears of this nightmare workshop were oiled to code,
deciphered and moaned, caterwauled but contained.
But only whores and nuns would ever live here, neither of which laugh lucrativly."

Her Lips Ring Around My Neck
As The Grooms Worst Fear

Paragraph II


Back to the prefix, as short as it was, I can't lay slain forever
So I'm bored and tired of my whiskey suit stories (they bathe in my imagination which I'd rather not)So I'll throw this REM town back like a Priest's bible