The Serene Ballad (ft. SpokenOrigami)
Mindless
SpokenOrigami
Give me a thread to needle. an incision to mend.
a vein to puncture, and a song to wound.
Eastern philosophy; the ode to contemporary being,
thieving the rotating sieve of the sands of time.
Thank god that perfection/heaven doesn’t have a curfew.
Tilt back my eyes while I dilate the blackness inside;
show me how to sit sober or dance drunk.
I'll be stumbling over notes in the next room,
listening to progressive rock within a stoner's throw;
using this lop-sided barstool as a pedestal.
Individuality is modern day’s villain, it wears a mask
of an infinite colour spectrum, speaks with assurance,
and sees the perspective in a watery orb. Tears streak,
from ear to cheek; In fear, in defeat.
Darkness is appealing.
I'm falling into an acid trip; regret sits in a spinning chair.
The syringe drips sending ripples through my skin,
theres no need for a cure when I've been dead already.
Influence is extacy; an exit for every suburban born city.
Our country ran over lady liberty with an SUV.
Call a taxi if my philosophy is too diluted,
but don't throw up in the back seat.
I am starting to believe that inspiration lost it’s copyrights
to the pornography publishers; Time to use beauty’s carcass
as a comforter, stuffing her with the last phoenix feathers,
maybe the sexual implications finally stole the globe’s
last thread of morale.
Too bad.
I need that to stitch false hope back into my blanket.
Let the unraveled road begin to inject a comfortable death.
It's self inflicted travels walk across my scars.
we are a generation of wanderers, with hearts for departure.
Breeding pedestrians inside the far reaches of tatoo parlors.
There's no harm in being confined to smoke filled bars; gentlemen
grabbing the arm of virginity found at the bottom of a bottle...
and lost at the top of the next. bartender where's my check?
im ready for a little dead sex and a name I'll forget.
Inevitably, lady lava, mother earth
has stopped lactating. Producing the milk is counter-productive,
so let the larva feast on the rotten spoils of war.
Choking on small parts is dangerous: take caution. Narcotics
are included in every Happy Meal. Morale is a miscellaneous
item in the children’s toybox. Stay out of mommy’s botox.
This is not another gateway drug,
or a story of silent sobriety.
This poem was written in a line of coke.
This song, sung with a pill in my throat.
We'll never heal our addiction.
We'll peel back the label on each prescription.
Refill every pore with an IV, spilling medicine.
Bury me with two litres of orange juice,
and a strip of sunshine.
Uproot me when the rain plummets.
Toe-tag reality with a fractul sun image
Pronounced dead at 3am
Cause of death; lysergic acid.
Leave me a needle to thread. an open incision.
a punctured vein, and a wounded song.
Reply With Quote
