A re-imagining of a song posted earlier. I think I prefer this version. Lyrics are slightly edited from the earlier version, perhaps a dozen lines deleted and several others rearranged. Still a one-note melody (F, which plays throughout) ... and, er, a body part for a title. Thoughts?
@$$#0Le (version 2)
Perfection in the ad means nothing on the longest day,
With darkness edited by the goddess of sun.
I am the camera, some Nikon in half, documenting masses and funeral accidents,
wishing at the crossroads of fuck.
I know the clock. I'm not your whiskey
in the trial of wagon and the snowblind of you.
Up the steps of important, I’m getting it back.
I’ll cry for the inch or the next little thing,
another miracle, another plastic.
Don't fill my infernal anonymous day
with your damn seconds.
In this abyss of dropping, I step to a rebirth.
I’ll swing your kings louder. I want less and higher.
It’s my 21st drunk; I almost am brilliant.
Chew on these, you Judas!
The best dead sucker offers prophecies for ruin.
I’m dull but alternative. Still racing.
I am wiser like a posse in the static paranoia.
Let’s talk around the championship.
The sight of magical
is suspect on you and your sexy shadow.
It rips my evening in two.
Oh yeah? Just rehab on this
in the privacy of your damned Valhalla.
Wear that cowboy number to the wedding of imagine.
Shoot us up with stupid gloomy fire.
Leave no rotten trace of your assault lullaby.
Enter the consumer, a recital of persistence,
and we’re ALL driving the cars from the farmer.
They’re meeting my needs, just circle 'em up.
Come on back, 1982.
I’ll sleep with it and believe
whatever is domination of the period.
I’d trade hell for the invisible victory,
or Wednesday for outlaws.
Thin boys paid for the conservation of loss --
suspicious and psychotic innocence,
an introduction to divide.
Why do we bother shining for yesterdays?
I'm shooting your spirit with infinite torture
and a certain bottom.
I might survive your vacancy.
The minstrels get blackened for progress,
for prophecy, hope, and weakness.
The months fall down, satanic, once an attack
of basics and losers,
now a fearless nighttime for shouting.
A tip from the driver nets you 14 prettier to love
than one like me.
But not a man in 14 blocks wants that particular you.
Teenagers of the romantic choose heroin and solitude.
We’re damnation whenever.
I’m building, in part, the courage of
cause and underground.
I fear your hot apology; here’s goodbye back.
I cried, “You failure! Don't you point at me,
murdered and bruised, unsafe & tired.
This crying! How negative!”
In 20 angles of dizzy, where the edge means reborn,
I’m fading into secrecy, and I’ll put in cannon fire.
Suede remains doomed.
– but it’s touchy and pointless as a daydream from Ohio.
I miss the blonde you, the anarchy of your photograph.
From years ago, the messiah finds useless time.
Put a mirror up to the economics;
reveal the inspiration of the forced.
Expose me to the arsonist,
still fighting with a wasted cry.
Nightmares are coming.
These are the Christians in popular films.
This wants not a superman.
The scenario of grandpa hung over with a stranger?
The announcement of brown?
I’ll dress for my favorite fight.
I would choose the trilogy if I were not awake.
The bedtime is the fall, good yesterdays, unholy sheets.
Without your spinnaker, it’s luxury without shining.
Silly of me to think of some kind of elsewhere.
You won’t sing my downfall if I force you to hush.
To hell with your martyrs;
there’s still moonlight becoming you, and being now ...
misanthropy moves and whispers of gold
inside the elevator of excuse.
Without symphonies for relief,
I put safety before personality, but ...
I’m dethroned and blunt.
We meet and make the refrain of the orgy,
and plans never crush the enchanted.
I want to be uncensored as you,
but sadness never knows the citizen.
Our sorry is random.
There’s trash in untamed reasons,
so we always choose the shame.
It’s not your laugh
or the tenderness of language and opinion.
Hey, the reaper loves your smoky trouble.
To his transparent whisper, I sold my memory.
It descends like a breakfast, forever important --
or not, like the state of Tennessee.
The awesome danger of a lifetime
makes me bitch and deride,
because I secretly want it to be real.
I don’t suspect satisfaction, but I need your features beside me and your hand surrounding mine.
You’re my maze, you’re my sorry,
you’re my unexpected happy ...
and my same kind of gravy.
I’m 90 postcards to Tuesday with you as my maelstrom.
I’m fresh out of damage and I won’t be reconstructed.
You’re all mouth and trousers,
but you’re still my lighthouse.
I’m waiting and remembering
because I can’t damn you to silence.
You asshole.
@nahlej381 Feb 2022
Intro tripped me out! Thought perhaps my drugs hadn’t worn off!! Lol really enjoyed my 2 listens…and the title is perfection. Nice one!
@rayboneor Feb 2022
I'm not sure which I like better. This one has crisper, funkier drums, if memory serves, with that great rumbling bass walking around. It's cool stuff, for sure. Each line is like a koan