kodaline. let us sing. a song of joy. a song of grace. passion fruit and violent gin. and press your lips. your finger tips. and cherry tops. broken frocks of plastic slime. your spots and dots. string in song. and fashion whores. barbarians of the winter love. they fuck and scream. and howl in song. and milk their eyes. and wax their shells. of fashion moons. and lunar tunes. fall and spring. the apple rings and naked ferns. aroused in chills. wake from dreams. sweet kodaline. let us sing. a song of joy and love.
you hide behind the lace of strings. your curtains curl. your blinds a-fold. your bushel rice. and drops of gore. it's time tonight. this month of love. the cancer fix. the story sings. one by one. the glow of skin. wrapped in wine. and off the shrine. your naked art. astonished and forlorn. you bite your skin. and bleed in joy. the hungry tides of november bliss. the sweat of smoke. gallop past your cheerful face. you man of filth. you finger pube. disdainful jazz. your famished art and hopeless kiss. they mean nothing. they speak nothing. a paper wrap, on your lips. you catch your breath. you hold your tongue. and pull the life off this caricature wall. if you were true. to displace my grace. to spit my face and say...anomalous brown. get off my frown. i cry in pain. i would slide my self in acid cans. in sunday fumes. and chicory lint. and shard my soul. orange organics. precipitate on a refusal of our audacity. of our poverty of minds. because, you do not tire. because you cannot decide. because you cannot please the sonnets of your own. frigid soul. because you play this game of blame. with pride and lust. and this staged hankering of attend. always, to your needs. to your whims. to this dielectric chiffon-mask of our triangulated incongruity.
kodaline. sweet love of mine. let us draw the line.
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