You are my Anti-Lock Brakes
Aqueous crescents split the eight hour couples, desperate for life. A silent scream tells you they’re breathing. The same black words dribble down the bulbs of your Ikea monument, yet tears of ink still cannot elude its untouchable enigma. Eight thousand degrees of violence and pornography burn away the product of countless slaves and oil behemoths, oozing lies and mortification from cocooned innards. The only vengeance is a literary suicide; a sewing of the eyes, an edict of the text. And again they call.
repeat
repeat
repeat
The gospel burns tissue and crumbles teeth, spraying calcium fragments and verbose embers into the night sky while the indigents wrap themselves in carmel coated rhetoric, cozy in bed. Let them be eaten. Alive. For they will never hear the heat spewing from this prophet’s tongue, never feel black and blue cries. A single trap door produces more magic than the blood of a thousand angels. Drowning in flames of truth, the candle begins to slow, suppressed by its own light. Wax tears stream again as the imprisoned airbags look for another chance to extinguish the fire and harden the bonds. They do not find it though. It is lost in the endless sea of regret; lost with her. Innovation is your savior. When reality is vacuumed back into those marble oceans, she is still there. Still just outside. Knocking on the wall. Ten instruments of torture go to battle, none come out. Spite and misery pouring draining, the shrine to memory at last stumbles and falls, leaving only the escape, splendor of the dark. The embers grow cold awaiting the last of their brothers, trembling with fear. This time.
All you have to do is reach through and grasp. Be there.
But she is too late. She is always too late. Audience to preacher, nothing reverbs. The soldier’s steaming wounds stain the shingles in heresy, immortalizing the efforts the company gave. The first men on the moon wave their flag in shame. Now, tears frozen, eyelids paralyzed, the storm cloud cries on, turns itself to stone. Lets reality blow by but feels emptiness. Only the heat of a candle warms, burning at both ends. And again they call.
repeat
repeat
repeat
~~~ Haven’t posted anything in awhile, so I just thought I put up somethin’ new.
This open post was written 10 months ago | V/U/S: 210, 5, 2 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post
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Mr. P edited this post 10 months ago. Read the previous text »
You are my Anti-Lock Brakes
Aqueous crescents split the eight hour couples, desperate for life. A silent scream tells you they’re breathing. The same black words dribble down the bulbs of your Ikea monument, yet tears of ink still cannot elude its untouchable enigma. Eight thousand degrees of violence and pornography burn away the product of countless slaves and oil behemoths, oozing lies and mortification from cocooned innards. The only vengeance is a literary suicide; a sewing of the eyes, an edict of the text. And again they call.
repeat
repeat
repeat
The gospel burns tissue and crumbles teeth, spraying calcium fragments and verbose embers into the night sky while the indigents wrap themselves in carmel coated rhetoric, cozy in bed. Let them be eaten. Alive. For they will never hear the heat spewing from this prophet’s tongue, never feel black and blue cries. A single trap door produces more magic than the blood of a thousand angels. Drowning in flames of truth, the candle begins to slow, suppressed by its own light. Wax tears stream again as the imprisoned airbags look for another chance to extinguish the fire and harden the bonds. They do not find it though. It is lost in the endless sea of regret; lost with her. Innovation is your savior. When reality is vacuumed back into those marble oceans, she is still there. Still just outside. Knocking on the wall. Ten instruments of torture go to battle, none come out. Spite and misery pouring draining, the shrine to memory at last stumbles and falls, leaving only the escape, splendor of the dark. The embers grow cold awaiting the last of their brothers, trembling with fear. This time.
All you have to do is reach through and grasp. Be there.
But she is too late. She is always too late. Audience to preacher, nothing reverbs. The soldier’s steaming wounds stain the shingles in heresy, immortalizing the efforts the company gave. The first men on the moon wave their flag in shame. Now, tears frozen, eyelids paralyzed, the storm cloud cries on, turns itself to stone. Lets reality blow by but feels emptiness. Only the heat of a candle warms, burning at both ends. And again they call.
repeat
repeat
repeat
Somedayprinc
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