The Pins In The Bowels Of the Charmed

The low blow blues will leave your name in the mirror.
you shiver at the memory of every ruined minute,
the much, many, fewest, a creature without
-sweet and selfless, got no gun plant nest egg-
the empty underwear, you can't shower it off,
you dance blind-folded off a mel blanc cliff.
last night you held your tongue until it fell off in your hand
and as always you ate it to ensure it's growing back.
sleeping off regret would mean a lifetime in bed.
i'd like to find a field and quit in the royal sense.

girls, shocks, thrills, and terror, the pins in the bowels of the charmed design.

it was the mutant perverse in their holiday sweaters.
i was drawn and quartered and ruthlessly smiled at.
i know no joy, i'm a mule from the bible,
as a kid the ss rode bikes under my bed.
i was born too big, it made me easy to shoot at,
and time is like a surgery with no survival rate.
between the music of rockets and all the lab coat cunts,
my heart is crushed like a mechanical santa clause.

girls, shocks, thrills, and terror, the pins in the bowels of the charmed design.