While her head is sorely pretty
this lurid null animates his lips
Most of my family lay with me rotting
I was alone afloat obtuse sutures
locked in pace and fucking their saints

His head jangling with scripts pretty
with lurid songs dropping from his lips
like the most perfect rotting fruit
There are oceans alone in obtuse cascades
in locked rooms where the damned pace

There’s a shot to the head in this form
The lyrics are all about lyrics from other songs
I would be perfect just the way I am waving
to you across oceans of ticker parade
Just shake my damned hand and let’s go

Curls jangle latently around my head
whispering lyrics flooded with collapsed sunshine
On a morning almost stagnant almost perfect
I’ll discard what songs ticker in my flesh I’ll walk too far
out into an arousal of waves and shake you off

If it’s my head quite warm for november
pushing past blatant sunshine for this tilting
She’ll end up flush with morning rains hands-down
among what mouths silently discard over the rail
We can see the plastic waves in my coffee