1. |
Fire Escape
03:35
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We come down hard on the side of sober
With logic in our pockets and impeccable taste
But that wide-throat dive's got the words hungover
Our talking does not follow cleaner blood, but a covered face
I need a god machine
To satisfy my want for pretty things
Something that I can see, all in one place
To that I do add everything you say
And the lazy propsal at my window
Is at once a taking and a chance to turn the dial
That wide-throat dive's got the words hungover
Our talking does not follow cleaner blood, but a riding style
We are in the strangest place
On bring-your-own-ladder day
Calming down a crying baby
Climbing down the fire escape
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2. |
Holy Kisser
03:08
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On the holy kisser's block
It takes 10 to turn him on
And not much more to get him off
Hand to mouth just to unfold
With corners up, and slightly bored
Is the source
The thicker the dime, the more he chokes up
Like a nightjar's warbling
While the quick and the dead give him bad love
In a birdbath of soft skin
He moves like a woman
And gives good dams everyday
Will makes paper planes with spanish notes
But they do not keep the shape
The thicker the dime, the more it grows
In a birdbath, wet face
He moves like a needletail
And gives good dams everyday
The swift body soaking starts the squeezing of his legs
Oh, holy row
If I cannot go, he calls it home
First, one wants a daft young bird
And doubtless, to carry heavy words
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3. |
Oh, Primo!
03:14
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I heard that you threw yourself down a flight of stairs because you were so tired
Of feeling terrible for everything you've done
The world was hanging upside down and heads were rolling on the ground
With the head of half the man you used to be
A visionary
In alchemy
A spoiled envy
A man decaying
Oh my god
They've killed them all
The last were shot
Before the fall
And the winter that followed was 20 years long (x4)
Oh tell me what your face looks like in turin on a friday night
And I will time-trip with you back to 1944
I will dress in red and plant explosives underneath the cattletruck
That stole your soul and robbed you of your right to die alive
With the ferassie's and loving guards all stacked up on the clinic beds
No money grows up 'tween your arms, but something does between your legs
A diatribe thing
Though not much speaking
A state of being
And terrifying
{what kind of mass production
new bodies steady burning
and the infirmary not
for healing only hurting
deader apothecary
god damn near full and plenty
in the infirmary and
out in the yard}
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