Let's sail away. Momma, that paint black mirror acts like it's faint. Packed my cigarettes up, and continued hand movements to light. Baby, that sweet smile's gonna get you in real deep. Don't miss the murders under water down beneath. Sweety, them soft words are gonna bring you back to me. Under water, music blasting, waves crashing on the blue dead sea.
My home life couldn't be any richer. I spend close time with a paint brush and a bottle of some strong liquor. I spend personal time writing, typing, riping over pads and pads of white paper. Letting lightning words all unrehearsed fly from his head in A-B-A-B verse. Granting wishes to the dope man. Paying stitches for his dope, man. Swimming like fishes from the ope den. Grinning like Christmas towards a fresh black pen.
The artist mumbles quietly into his wholesome drink, in his lonely pad. This is his house for creativity, and resentment, and fertility, and anxiety, and reliablitly, and resentment. As the half highted, necromaniac strolls cross the floor, finding the dead legs much softer, sexier, pleasurable than any legs he's felt before. A strong, overpowering realization of erotic and erratic compulsion. "Let's fuck dead people!!!!"
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2 comments:
You've got some flow, Phil, some good flow going on in this.
I really like it. Seriously, this is fucking awesome. It gives me a warm fuzzy of crazy proportions!
even the whole thing about fucking dead people? that part was purely about something Ryan and i were joking about.
but thanks sweetheart. meaning much to me.
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