My anchor climbs overboard and sinks it's teeth in sand:
"Oh no! Oh no, no!"
A sickly serum crawls up it's legs and fucks it's eyeball strands:
"Oh no! Oh no, no!"
The woods are mewing, heaven looks foolish.
Rapids are lusting, heaven's got a thong on.
Boots form drunken DJs run off arm-in-arm with us,
Twitching from their lunar fits, shooting up some witch's dust.
A jungle of spins, nerves rubbing on each other
Heavy with the breaths of heart attack scams,
A jungle of spines is where you'll find me, lover;
Write back to me some time next week...
Our rides a beak made from a beauty queen,
Wrapped up in some teenager's horny dream
And our tuxedos are pressed-in recycled sex toys,
Lips puckered so hard they gag in joy
And dance and dance with hallucinating natives
So wild and charmed and pixelatd
And fuck away our feelings and our minds
Just like grandfather clocks who forget time.
God bless the Nervous Isle!
Shackled to the shocks of eleven dusty clouds,
These villagers take us to their neo-utopia.
Breath-taking satellite imagery of kaleidoscopic structural lungs
Commemorate, annunciate, cpaitalize, and prophesize
Like a plucked, down-and-out assasin.
The word "celebration" and it's counterparts
Tag their selves upon my crew, while we walk gawdy
And bashfully tall into these stranger's bedrooms.
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