"Pioneer, the Stereo Type"
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 my 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: prep my plastic soul
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 manifestos.
We'll revert to fetal positions
From the wombs of black speakers-
Heads bobbing back and forth
Breathing on the drop of cracked needles.
