Genocide Approach To Negate The Dreams Of Man
Wake up call, left hook to the jaw. Spitting teeth and
double entendres. Marionette's cross has become my
wildcard. I know not what I do. My armoire is overflowing
with others' cloaks, but I will never be revealed.
Wiretaps to promote security as the Kevlar unravels to
embrace the shot in the back. I strike a Lennonesque
descent to my concrete utopia at the puppeteer's command,
but now I'm back at the start. Stalemate, old chap. A
jejune discourse of two-bit riddles keeps us entertained,
the moles have accomplished so much that we will never
begin to recognize. Life these days reads like Pollock
and shocks like Mapplethorpe. It is me against them, in a
sick, codependent fashion. Magnetamerica. All rise for
the respectful applause, for I am the face of your lust
and the voice of your deity and my predecessor knows I've
taken as many stones as He has. Nail me to your sticks
and comb my coifs. The lingering odor of dry rot brings
forth the moles to further my bidding, led to negate the
dreams of man. Explanations projected as expulsions
through the nostrils, free of such formalities as proper
blessings. Hindsight, second guessing, these things are
dangerous to a man such as myself. This is Oedipus at its
most rock 'n' roll. Let's set these bonfires and
celebrate like the mindless epicureans we so proudly are.
My blood is thick with oil and I'm seeing stars. My hair
turns as white as my past...but I will never be revealed.
Cut these strings, I've served my time. I'm a real little
boy. Disarm the liars and burn them alive. All hail the
new world order.
