Phenom | Kingz | Dabatos | TonySelf | Tha Q | Half Breed | Tito | 7th End | RV Radio |
07-22-06, 02:58 PM | #1 | |
1926
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"Pioneer, the Stereo Type"
IP:
Ground connection to central
Fore; head the database. Information races itself To paint a blank cortex With rhythm enigmatica; Cerebellum babble on: idiot. Choking on commercial everyday While coughing blood diamonds; Syringe tipped fingers Continue to tickle individuality. Sipping bittersweet polyphonic; Catching kisses on broken tracks Before this train of thought Derails along superficial parallels... Into the comfort of toxin Tipped record needles we go. Grin little idiot, think we not. Sick-brained bastard mothered By the subtle of cancer; A prescription a day keeps The heart beat away, swallow hard. His words thumping through Hollow canals as the rapids Step across 5th category. The river, Muse, continues To take on waves as sound Floods a watered-down stage. I built this home from a Deck of cards with charred edges And double stacked my heart In the center of the pile; Pressed my ear to another's Heart beat as this house Tumbled into stacks of Misshapen paper cuts. Backstroking the ashes Of cohesiveness, the pseudo Intellect paints a pretty face For the industrial prostitute. I'll smile for the camera until My tears blur the line between We and self. Hammer away, chisel and Makeshift stigmata. Make this misshapen ball Of clay the bust that gets A dollar bill to the G-string. Hammer! Hammer! Hammer! Yes! Drive that stake through My broken skull and continue To fuck me over again and again! When you're done, lick the plate Clean with a serpentine pass; Drag that jagged tongue across My empty head until all that's Left is a delighted hiss! Mmmm, sweet uncontrol. Balancing across the tight rope Crooked smile... A stroke of art is the only act, As two dilated pupils inhale Static while the AV cables Plug into the hardheaded. Take my picture little black box. I'll smile for the birdie while The generate watches a Massacre of contemporary art, After the dollar bill hills Are extinguished and common Sense is no longer excepted In the arcade personality. Voodoo Child bleeds from Deaf ears of generations swallowed By the flames of latter-day Stars and Strata casters. We are the children, voodoo Speaker box prop my paper doll For proper instillation. I'll sleep in this bed of snakes With every fang playing Another swollen note, And this stereotype will break The charts as all the dolls Master their plaster manifesto. We'll revert to fetal positions From the wombs of black speakers; Head bobbing back and forth Breathing on the drop of cracked needles. |
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