and haste makes butterfingers conan-
drum and tribal
station
go me over the bow of my spirit deck
wash the mask of her venture over me
cause there is no peace and no safety
in numbers
and could it mean
opaque level of service rendered homeless musac sundered glimpse of something
more suitable for rending than this pad sale time of grief left out to rot upon the counter
top of my tongue tip of my head pierce
the body part that least resists you marshall
the armies of your mind sunder
the wholeness of soul and spirit make my renderer seem kind
for the phantom that
comes for you at night will
appear restless and appeal
for your love
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