Thursday, December 31, 2009

2010


in

With your tongue tied-
and your french-like kiss
I wont pray for you
But I'll get down on my knees,
I fell off course, unto a missionary fawn,
and I blew off smoke, into the pixalated dawn.

How come, you wont come and how come I will.
and how come your heart of sand blows toward me still.
now I've become sour, and you've become shell,
and we're both made outta dreams at the bottom of the well.

What does he got, which I don't have?
Is it the fire in his tease,
I don't have much anything, cept paper and ink.
now hes made outta solid rock, and I'm made outta tree.
your now made outta memories which scream back at me.

A marble minded misfit with the memories of god,
grabbed hold of my footsteps, grabbed hold of my wand.
she put a spell on me, then she read my palm.
then we got in her caravan, and made that shit rock.

How come, you wont come and how come I will.
and how come your heart of sand blows toward me still.
now I've become sour, and you've become shell,
and we're both made outta dreams at the bottom of the well.

My arrow-headed hipsters, smoked pot toward my soul.
they tried to take me in with their acid tongued bowls.
but I let em' have it, man I let em' crawl.
I picked up ones wind pipe, and used it as my own.

Four score for scoring for skyscrapping men,
who swallow jack-hammers, til' the whiskey burned red.
and my facial hair frenzy blew sticks in the wind;
to the girls I made love too, none of them were my friends.

To the few, at my funeral.
my reflection it still leads,my army of minus, follow me to the grave.
my pillows weep willows, which cannot be saved.
my ships have all sunken to the middle of my maze.

How come, you wont come and how come I will.
and how come your heart of sand blows toward me still.
now I've become sour, and you've become shell,
and we're both made outta dreams at the bottom of the well.

My temptation lashed out scriptures of friendly fire shots,
as these unorthodox creatures, put up imaginability blocks,
they don't want to have fun, they just want to sit and talk.
and I am getting dizzy from staring at all the broken clocks.

How come, you wont come and how come I will.
and how come your heart of sand blows toward me still.
now I've become sour, and you've become shell,
and we're both made outta dreams at the bottom of the well.

and we became memories at the bottom of a well.




  Imaginabilty blocks (Version 2)  by  Richard Perkins