i’m gunning
for the max,
the desolating utmost
of a binary mind.
my hands viscid on her a**.
fingers trace geographies,
la dolce vita up her spine.
and I start to tremble,
boy getting primed.
release importunity
through a sacred design.
the room loses shape,
my priorities fucked,
and,” oh,
feeling good is
good enough.”
"i'm not a mutant
for being concerned with fusing
myself to a drunken mass of
dangerous fluids.
i'm not
subhuman.
don't make me
feel stupid.
you have not proven
you can be kind to a woman."
oh, the Mystic,
oh, the Fortunate,
god, i miss it.
doom the Comeliness.
altruistic
miss with lipstick.
dreams are colorless.
my flesh is done with this.
uh-huh.
oh, the Mystic,
oh, the Fortunate,
oh, the Mystic,
oh, the Fortunate,
oh, the Mystic,
oh, the Fortunate.
the anamnesis
of blood sugar sex
magik.
stock-still and handsome,
palsied in dessert wine
and pungent to the nines,
and looking in terror
at the morning star
whose head
rests on my chest,
makes the Boys fall apart.
but i’m still standing,
the likelihood
of caving in
is understood.
my heart’s
posed firm
and my stuff’s beat up
your
enigmatic visions,
the Misty Young Bucks.
dried up every gushing clown,
smothered simple appeal,
murdered what bored you into feeling
nothing was real.
but i'm still the Devil
and i still get stuck
when
feeling good
is good enough
and
oh, the Mystic,
oh, the Fortunate,
god, i miss it.
doom the Comeliness.
oh yeah,
altruistic
miss with lipstick.
dreams are colorless.
my flesh is done with this.
uh-huh.