Bodies In The Gears Of The Apparatus Hoist The Black Flag (and Begin Slitting Throats)
baby got up and sung jazz tunes i knew.
we cursed the damned architects when they were at failure
and we watched the walls crumble.
spit on my shoes, bathe me in flies – let me shout aloud
“I used you prostitute”.
we rode in with blood on our hands and left as
businessmen.
