THE IMPRESSARIO
I have asked to butcher the parents of mind
In sterile rooms beyond the perfect chambers
The pared-down 8 track shaving sound stacks
All cream like a duty on the amateur roads
Except I am shaved now and broken like some bitch
Shaking limbs out with the blood god to be saved
Along with my controlling head all messy and punished
In the delivery of one natural
Zone
All endings burning and finding cages
The whole time here in this theocracy of factory cysts
Like an idea of installed wiring freaking me out
As every advocate winces under swaying lead wings
With flags and imagos where the butter kings sing
Mouthing ruin over the shining trays of teeth
No street supplement bright enough to cure
Or curb the shrink-wrapped gills and cuts in
Territory
It's all a kiss off for crutch platforms
Where the lab displays of purple crusts manoeuvre virtue
(I know we can trust you) let's talk to the cousins of love
Everything is image creep and junior fervour for the Dr's
Instantiated farming package drag one forward catch
The nine shots flicking back all through precision blades
Maddened for one pre-judicial hearing and the payback sum
And ostentatious rubber twang while we are
Feral
And turned from bruise to Braille
Each year declines in the knuckle of a mind
The pike loaf like all anterior to the lathe song
Stripped for reconnaissance meetings downtown or
A prayer convention or dojo comedown I shame a must-have cow
(Or convex persona in the former soldered Mayor) recollect those
Martian ray guns neutralised in the offices of her Holy Mother
Under the rotating gases of the Sound
Committee
Bang before the food station's sooty bills
Uprooting of soft bone and gristle in the dance market
Here each boy passes out before the Institute of Wounds
My cowboy slingback Zulu militia washing against the fallow bones
Just countdowns on the armatures of single sounds
Pissing on the husks of the meaning scene where the world famous
Pricing Department is a poor cyan of washed-out
Tits
I will never be led
While we are watching and hoping for the filthiest beds
Breathing a modest inch and strutting for pigs
Instead I'll take you through a dream of black rope and keepsakes
Scratching the families of the civic bathos movement
My legislature adjusted for free carnal episodes where each
Billionth song smashes the sound embargo tears through
To the dead mechanism in the drip in the tap of the
Radio
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