discotheque.

your pages of illegible chickenscratch brain vomit
sit in my skull;
it produces nothing so I take a match to it

dance away the memories in a quiet room
invisible bass beats and hand claps
the rhythm is our daughter
in a church made of flame and nerve endings

staccato speech, staccato notes
you conduct the worst orchestra in history
and you do it with such grace
I'm still dancing as my murder takes place

the crescendo of the symphony is your blade
it kisses my spine and he laughs out loud;
covers his mouth with his hand

you can have your pages of lies back
I won't need them in hell
and neither will you

I'm falsetto; deal.

I'll make you believe
I'm a muse for people with nothing left but themselves
a new drop of water in a bucket of old water
temporary ripples
you'll soon find out
I'm nothing but a source
I'll make you stop believing
because I've stopped and it's your all of your faults
there are sheets in front of me to make my silhouette look breathtaking
and I can't ever hear you
you'll soon find out, love
I'm a few short and just in pieces forever
how dare you all for giving me doubt
how dare you
when you feel what I know you're going to feel, call me
I will pick up

mushroomclouding.

when their voices carry through your airwaves
when you hum and sing along
(the day to day routine)
the compilations created for your consumption
aural sex
when you hum and sing along,
do you think of me?
(the source of your modernistic influences)
do you impress your newest leech;
the Yes Man embodied
how cultured and eclectic you are.

My how we've devolved
when you turn on your radio, remember
you're no longer worthy for their voices in your airwaves
bloodsucker
you'll be filled with the hollow of the Yes Man's aural sex
(you'll be filled with the hollow)
false motives can't ever feel as good
as well-written songs
compiled from the heart

(my ears are open and my eyes are open again)