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Tuna sandals O' the Ontario blues
grey matter ~ a careless whisper into secret winds
I find the basement is enclosed but its salvation wraiths a poison apple
the one I would share with the fruitiest of gangsters
and I am addicted to its nocturnal seed a little glow
and it's all better the ghouls of Tokyo could eat a complete meal
on the most delicate of my wisdom ~ a delicacy
a hard drive into the rain, and there I disappear into the fog
~~nobody cares~~ just Santa and his satanic minions bat an eye to my most treasured of gunshot pillow thoughts delivered by a sour apple
in the guise of a black rose O' how I love the thorns, but I fucking hate the petals for it is they who try to consume me, the bud, of this fragile earth I call my body ~ to be used like an unidentified, corpse, flying object
the sweet serenade of lies, however riveting
kills me every time
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