Roman Holiday Glitterati
A fourscore affair, and a room full of blood. A monolithic dream tells the story here. This sacrifice at a hell-for-leather pace leaves a little girl with dry salt streaming down her face (and just like the last little pig, she'll cry all the way home.) Godspeed the gnashing of teeth, grinding like pestle and mortar at the site. But this is no more than a personification; we deal with tragedy every day, a little less off than ordinary. Stories. Dreams. She found it hard to believe her blinded eyes. Sick situations make up the building blocks of a Gacy generation, her numb lips wouldn't even scream for help. Split second and hairtrigger, now she's robbed of both dignity and oxygen. It's hard to tell when you've done enough. Now grayscale, but she's still the victim. Red and black and white. Red and blank and white. Victim. "The sodomy presented and adultery provided, an unfortunate equation where the bane of lust resided. With purity unkempt, and flesh but torn off from the bone, our punisher: astonished, as he found himself alone. A lifeless figure awkwardly portrayed against a wall, with a siren gaze accompanied by emptiness, of all. For a kiss upon the left cheek would rob you of the right, but no kiss at all will grant you fall and quell against the fight."
Keepsake, or His Wishes Were Sentimental
Imprisonment was the kindest term they could offer. Four walls of steel trace blood and vomit, and mock haggard complexions that are more than just fighting for freedom... star treatment pleads the fifth. You're top dog or the random bitch in a commoner's rat trap, but either way, discomfort has begun to take its toll. Peraly whites. Pearly gates. I couldn't ask for me. These are the actions of an icon, not a criminal An honest crime is one that destroys, and these actions haven't harmed a soul.
Human error and the lack of intelligence thereof; this is a circus. If you've got blonde hair and blue eyes, you may already be a winner... automatically progress to the finals. All those that do not meet our requirements will face decapitation on site; join the millions! Hitler would be proud. It will soon become called to your attention that acceptance is as good as suicide. Please check your self-esteem at the door. Starlet, you're sweating. Delete it from the scenes. Your idols are crying, but they'll clean that up in the magazines. The camera's got a death stare, now the mpegs are streaming and they never saw it coming. A script so partial to this filthy condition. Yes, it's all disgust, and you're doing exactly what Mr. Producer wants you to; don't think for a second, you cannot think. Contacts and high heels are the carnival attractions that bring you to Miss America's feet. You'll be starved for attention or fed for publicity. The grass is greener in Beverly, so sign here and here, and you'll belong to me. Silver screen fuck queen, laughing in the face of momentary rape, all of your desires are caught on tape. And now we bring you live to the porcelain palace of the bulimic sweatshop beauty, to perform her next stunt... press your forehead to the mirror's glass. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Our Lady Of The Slaughterhouse
As I wahsed my hands clean of her unfaithfulness, fate found its way up my spine to a place in a lonely synapse I hadn't yet encountered. Eyes, ears, and mouth were uncovered and she told me everything. Everything I wanted to hear, everything she was late to say. She wanted me to feel guilty, sorry, and more emotions that I had gotten over. But not in this moment was sympthy connected to a lasting embrace. You can't take back a stab in the back; liken that to the chest and the damage is still permanent. "You're still dying, and I'm still the last thing you'll see, so look into my eyes and take it with all of the dignity you have left." She didn't seem to absorb much of that, she didn't buy a goddamned word I said. She knew too much, boss, she knew too much.
Wrong Side Of The Operating Table
Two eyeholes cut our of plaster and a new walking lesson; her condition is contagious, but she's immune to slander. Botox Barbie woke up with a coathanger smile and stitches on her personality. She'll look good on Broadway, Cosmo would love to have her. But what would Rome think? Is this what Monroe envisioned, the American Dream? A flashbulb would capture every false precision line on our battered Madonna decorated in roses. It's gold. As classic as modern art. Oh California, do you cry for youth? Doesn't it just make you sick? Have we no heart? This is the end of natural beauty and a rebirth for artifical self-esteem and recognition. (A dotted line drawn. Runway strut. That sparkle in her eyes. A hipbone fantasy. Rejection, injection, dissection, reflection, perfection.) Tell me what you don't like about yourself.
Garrison State and Heavy Hearts Ascending
Negative progression as we sift through diesel and dirt, our mechanic limbs screaming "oil, oil!" between foam and regret. The stench of the fumes, this has become the background music that plays us our through endless nights. Our main distraction fiends as a standstill; finding a way out of this mess. The corruption is right in front of us, we are betrayal. Foot soldiers armed with fatal tyranny as their only defense have somehow gotten the best of the few true seekers of purpose; knowing what this earth was founded upon, however hopeless in design. You've stolen our secret. Happy endings don't play out like this, and no exceptions are allowed, forbidden ground. Tendency is a key word, how about democracy? You've said all you need to say. I've done all I can.