spiritually violent close minded dreamers. singing angelic.
delicately symbolic and anemic royalties leaking lucid thoughts to my lack of seeds.
it's a funny farm of misfit thieves bleaching there hair and bruising their knees. sunday morning thunder plundering across my brother's transistor. all the good girls aching for a whisper but all the ghosts are jaded and fade back into the coast.
it's good to be content when your soul has a hole and your patience is spent.
mom buys me violent hookers who seethe and snicker through the new york streets.
jet packs for teeth and sunshine on there soles. caught in a race, wrapped in the throws, soaken in woes.
your heart is a silly circus sorry for the slutty sodomites soaking up sweaty southern sunshine. just give me a field of watermelon and a salty syringe of forgiveness.
