We released the ropes (Oh, fuck yeah, we released' em...) And all what hurries up on the jetty will gently go back in front of the sticky faces ready to stubble themselve. I went offering my rotten tooth to the sun, there - instantly, like an old captain burst by the hurricane on this little morning, and I spread myself in pieces on the everyday web-beach, whatever the day we are today. Burst.
Leprosy like you've never seen, smiling, spread over what the world count of square inch of free sand. I feel the beat of my meat infected by spirit of spirit, 'till the end ant deeper again. I played plagued dandy in free zones of a seduction that is not really one. An equal report on the ensemble of my work : it's the ruin of my jaw in the sky that cuts the silhouette of dormitory cities. A rotten priest who challenges the whole universe.
I have a slaughterhouse to my very own, a kind of "avant-garde" theater where I play each evening a detail of my existence : A home appliance drama, the dishes and taking out garbage cans in the style of the German expressionists.
We can endlessly let flow the half of our reason. There will always remain something, that time makes essential. This will often be : appetite, a black hunger that comes to pull our belly, a thirst that changes each word to a fucking dry desert. And about this western : you take your stand under the arm, you move in the non-society, the non-group-herd-failure of the everyday life, you send back the dramas as a mirror, you simply have the glassy and approving eye for the whole and anything.
Finally you're just looking for the saloon, you're searching Susan, you're searching a piece of feeding mother, sweet, simple. The envy to swallow it all, shouting to the scandal, because all these crap around you are not damned to play their poor role properly - another pleasure spoiled. So you can lay a long speech, in which the word "stupre" comes many times. A "loghorrée" - maybe. But for a moment, in the middle of this gathering of cowboys feeble, with the old diarrhea that comes with rage and bounced on the meat of my filthy tongue, for a moment, there will be shreds of me that will fly.
On the pianist, and on this beloved Susan that does not exist but that makes me wonder so -
Then launch our own grotesque procession, carrying two or three souls, pick the corpses behind the bourgeois beauty. Painting future decadences, the one for the next failures. The real avant-garde would be to play today the decadence of our utopias. To build ruined theaters where to play divinatory-cabarets, by the counter, with Amanda Palmer in the role of Susan.
To burn out all stages, a fucking ellipse and leave all these dumbs with their dream-mast, hopes grilled before they even approach a spirit. We will all get the same meat quiet painfull on our tired bones, and will tell to our grandsons and rear-shit the mud that await them now. This while laughing a last time before our shity Apocalypse misses. Fuckin' wet firecracker, only an old residue of a society that has not even managed to die with panache.
We'll see, or rather we will not see if someone can do better.
Leprosy like you've never seen, smiling, spread over what the world count of square inch of free sand. I feel the beat of my meat infected by spirit of spirit, 'till the end ant deeper again. I played plagued dandy in free zones of a seduction that is not really one. An equal report on the ensemble of my work : it's the ruin of my jaw in the sky that cuts the silhouette of dormitory cities. A rotten priest who challenges the whole universe.
I have a slaughterhouse to my very own, a kind of "avant-garde" theater where I play each evening a detail of my existence : A home appliance drama, the dishes and taking out garbage cans in the style of the German expressionists.
We can endlessly let flow the half of our reason. There will always remain something, that time makes essential. This will often be : appetite, a black hunger that comes to pull our belly, a thirst that changes each word to a fucking dry desert. And about this western : you take your stand under the arm, you move in the non-society, the non-group-herd-failure of the everyday life, you send back the dramas as a mirror, you simply have the glassy and approving eye for the whole and anything.
Finally you're just looking for the saloon, you're searching Susan, you're searching a piece of feeding mother, sweet, simple. The envy to swallow it all, shouting to the scandal, because all these crap around you are not damned to play their poor role properly - another pleasure spoiled. So you can lay a long speech, in which the word "stupre" comes many times. A "loghorrée" - maybe. But for a moment, in the middle of this gathering of cowboys feeble, with the old diarrhea that comes with rage and bounced on the meat of my filthy tongue, for a moment, there will be shreds of me that will fly.
On the pianist, and on this beloved Susan that does not exist but that makes me wonder so -
Then launch our own grotesque procession, carrying two or three souls, pick the corpses behind the bourgeois beauty. Painting future decadences, the one for the next failures. The real avant-garde would be to play today the decadence of our utopias. To build ruined theaters where to play divinatory-cabarets, by the counter, with Amanda Palmer in the role of Susan.
To burn out all stages, a fucking ellipse and leave all these dumbs with their dream-mast, hopes grilled before they even approach a spirit. We will all get the same meat quiet painfull on our tired bones, and will tell to our grandsons and rear-shit the mud that await them now. This while laughing a last time before our shity Apocalypse misses. Fuckin' wet firecracker, only an old residue of a society that has not even managed to die with panache.
We'll see, or rather we will not see if someone can do better.
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