That night I hung myself to ticking clocks.
Dismembered, grinning, I could almost taste their fangs.
Far from the reach of dirty hands that offer the legs, lungs and hearts of headless guitars.
You're just feeding limbs to ticking clocks.
Did you not notice this banquet has no cutlery for us?
The reason may come as a shock, but your 15 minutes are almost up.
But you'll dance to their beat with the motions of stillness.
The vultures will whisper sour obedience as they cicle caged meat.
All of a sudden your 6 feet deep in escapist dreams.
Let's ride the tongues of fluent marketing schemes. Let's put our angels all to sleep, whistling hounds project our fantasies.
It all makes sense if you would just believe me.
Many have slept ever so peacefully inside these rented castles, on the asphalt of exploited dreams, in the belly of machines.
SO now we'll melt our faces into a sea of concrete.
We'll profess our love to these pigs of gluttony, who've never heard us filthy hounds bark loveless songs to rotting suns.
We'll spread our skin and melt our bones, along freeways where your fog can't melt us all.
You'll be missing limbs from straw men the day the blind understand their fame.
In the light they won't recognise your face.
In the night I won't ever trade your skull and teeth.