A homage to music by Bradlee Gillen
Soothe me my magnificent machines screaming meaning against my rage, but burn me in the spotlights of beautiful people until only ashes turn my page.
Spare me from the vestiges of ladies bare and naked adorned with the flags of bulls on parade.
Keep my appointment for tea for two just for the insanity I've went through to have it made.
I anoint you with swollen blisters from the sons and the doctor’s needles that tear holes to give stollen aids.
We are forsaken in our deals with devils when we've mistaken cards collected with debts being paid.
Knock down the three doors at last and walk fast past all the pumpkins being smashed so you can hear the dying young sing of being good and how long time should last.
You hate me, so you stray from me, when my Rammsteins have beaten your whole son black until the seismic power of my temples lay gardens of sound to lead you back.
Organize these pieces of audio my slaves and eat the little jagged pills.
Now, follow me as we swallow them in the name of who you kill.
Mother mary my heart will weep for you still.
I've been folded five ways and may hold seven more days from grace, for I am only like a virgin with a tiny dancer's face.
We are windswept candles with no handlebars.
You won't remember why you came so far away from snake bitten veins when you remain closed to doors left open by people that are mainly strange.
Follow me further down with my sickness and witness the demons of me in which it’s woken until the defeating sounds of my own silence violently remind me of a mind
being broken.
Drive it home if with only a lonely radio and one lone headlight.
I've done one shot of Moms spaghetti.
Nom nom nom.
Ready?
Saturday night.