Now who's going to read this assortment of lyrics, prose and poetry?
Ill Thought
----------------------------------------
Twenty thousand blades of ill thought,
Writhing in the wind,
A shadow boxing bred lament,
Till kingdoms admit their sins..............
Twenty thousand blades of ill thought,
Wanting on the wire,
An eager shaman telling tales,
Till God resigns his power.
Eggshell Junkies
---------------------------------------
Eggshell junkies juxtapose their worthless ponderings upon my mantelpiece,
Distracting me from my chore laden existence as I strive to provide light in my own,
Darkened crevice of petty treasures,
In which the only other source of sustenance from what I can remember,
Happens to be a glimmering yet rustic item of old style coinage,
That has bound to have been, lurking in the shadows for near all eternity,
Of course I could have been easily tempted to let the devil have his way,
For myself to be frivolous once more,
Since my mother had left this grand abode in my keep
Following her somewhat ill fated departure to the Azores,
Wouldn’t it be fine and well for me to take?
What may never have seen the light of day again?
However this plan of action could never be carried out with sufficient aplomb,
For the Eggshell junkies still long to be appeased………………..
James Spader
-------------------------------------------
Dearest James does the deed,
Dispensing a doleful dose,
Morose searing solar rolls,
As he performs a mournful toast,
For statuesque stately homes,
Inept in all but grace,
Here comes the money shot,
Sex, lies and videotape,
Here in lies a burdened load,
He’s to forge a will of woes,
Leaving loathing to his love,
Above the art house folds,
Spader knows what he knew,
Was frivolous at best,
He’d show asides of wit and wait,
For the script to do the rest,
Sex, lies and videotape,
His finest hour indeed,
Portraying life without love,
Staving off the need,
To sequence stale dividing drives,
Away from fasting foes,
Criticising critical cries,
For independence shows,
The director dealing with his soul,
Restating all regrets,
James Spader could deal with those,
If you’ll spare him a cigarette.
Wondrous Excess
-----------------------------------------
I survey my worth with a pornographer’s eye,
Taking care in subtle amounts,
Loathing those who pass the test,
Who are pure by all accounts,
Those who seek adoring praise,
Cast shadows as long as days,
Flattering themselves with empty prose,
Leaving little for one to say,
In regards to narcissistic narcotic riddled sons,
Who need not heed their father’s calls,
For their minds are overrun,
With flirtatious folly and stolen wit,
Obliged to keep the peace,
Between the warring parties whose parties never cease,
I survey my worth with a pornographer’s eye,
Taking note of excessive success,
Loathing those who need deny,
The artist his wondrous excess.
Bullets and Sperm
----------------------------------
Looking down the barrel of an emptied revolver I feel moved to the point that I empathise with the bullets that left the magazine behind. I find bullets to be less prone to exaggeration than my fellow man, they’re straight to the point, there’s no pretension with a bullet only death. I used to put my trust in sperm but they are by nature much less reliable than my acquaintance the bullet, sperm often meanders and in the direst situation they mightn’t even reach their destination.
However I do tend to be less formal when I converse with my sperm, my bullets demand my utmost attention, they expect me to hang on their every word and who am I to argue with their habitual prowess. My sperm on the other hand is quite like a liberalist politician who may be a bit of a fop but is generally more genial than my firmly national socialist bullets. To be honest though they’ll both screw me over at some point, I’m certain of it, but to die at the hand of sperm is somewhat less impressive than going down under a hail of bullets or maybe it's the other way round?
Wives
-------------------------------
I’ve become rather accustomed to this lifestyle,
Champagne and cigarettes, sodomy and the lash,
I tend to ignore the expense of keeping a household,
What are wives for? Sustaining sexual deviancy?
Well I hope that you’ve already made your own assumptions,
Although to be honest I lack the requisite level of charismatic charm,
For a man of my standing needs to be on top of things least not in the bedroom,
Again what are wives for? Toiling until the morn?
I find your rate of progress quite astounding,
Although the choice is yours; misogyny or monogamy?
If you find that you gravitate towards the latter I extend my pity,
As a male you must abuse your right to be a chauvinistic bastard,
You must believe your own hype; you’ve to understand my words,
Women are merely a means to a miraculously morbid end,
An effective if costly leisure facility that you must cherish yet define,
What are husbands for?
Ill Thought
----------------------------------------
Twenty thousand blades of ill thought,
Writhing in the wind,
A shadow boxing bred lament,
Till kingdoms admit their sins..............
Twenty thousand blades of ill thought,
Wanting on the wire,
An eager shaman telling tales,
Till God resigns his power.
Eggshell Junkies
---------------------------------------
Eggshell junkies juxtapose their worthless ponderings upon my mantelpiece,
Distracting me from my chore laden existence as I strive to provide light in my own,
Darkened crevice of petty treasures,
In which the only other source of sustenance from what I can remember,
Happens to be a glimmering yet rustic item of old style coinage,
That has bound to have been, lurking in the shadows for near all eternity,
Of course I could have been easily tempted to let the devil have his way,
For myself to be frivolous once more,
Since my mother had left this grand abode in my keep
Following her somewhat ill fated departure to the Azores,
Wouldn’t it be fine and well for me to take?
What may never have seen the light of day again?
However this plan of action could never be carried out with sufficient aplomb,
For the Eggshell junkies still long to be appeased………………..
James Spader
-------------------------------------------
Dearest James does the deed,
Dispensing a doleful dose,
Morose searing solar rolls,
As he performs a mournful toast,
For statuesque stately homes,
Inept in all but grace,
Here comes the money shot,
Sex, lies and videotape,
Here in lies a burdened load,
He’s to forge a will of woes,
Leaving loathing to his love,
Above the art house folds,
Spader knows what he knew,
Was frivolous at best,
He’d show asides of wit and wait,
For the script to do the rest,
Sex, lies and videotape,
His finest hour indeed,
Portraying life without love,
Staving off the need,
To sequence stale dividing drives,
Away from fasting foes,
Criticising critical cries,
For independence shows,
The director dealing with his soul,
Restating all regrets,
James Spader could deal with those,
If you’ll spare him a cigarette.
Wondrous Excess
-----------------------------------------
I survey my worth with a pornographer’s eye,
Taking care in subtle amounts,
Loathing those who pass the test,
Who are pure by all accounts,
Those who seek adoring praise,
Cast shadows as long as days,
Flattering themselves with empty prose,
Leaving little for one to say,
In regards to narcissistic narcotic riddled sons,
Who need not heed their father’s calls,
For their minds are overrun,
With flirtatious folly and stolen wit,
Obliged to keep the peace,
Between the warring parties whose parties never cease,
I survey my worth with a pornographer’s eye,
Taking note of excessive success,
Loathing those who need deny,
The artist his wondrous excess.
Bullets and Sperm
----------------------------------
Looking down the barrel of an emptied revolver I feel moved to the point that I empathise with the bullets that left the magazine behind. I find bullets to be less prone to exaggeration than my fellow man, they’re straight to the point, there’s no pretension with a bullet only death. I used to put my trust in sperm but they are by nature much less reliable than my acquaintance the bullet, sperm often meanders and in the direst situation they mightn’t even reach their destination.
However I do tend to be less formal when I converse with my sperm, my bullets demand my utmost attention, they expect me to hang on their every word and who am I to argue with their habitual prowess. My sperm on the other hand is quite like a liberalist politician who may be a bit of a fop but is generally more genial than my firmly national socialist bullets. To be honest though they’ll both screw me over at some point, I’m certain of it, but to die at the hand of sperm is somewhat less impressive than going down under a hail of bullets or maybe it's the other way round?
Wives
-------------------------------
I’ve become rather accustomed to this lifestyle,
Champagne and cigarettes, sodomy and the lash,
I tend to ignore the expense of keeping a household,
What are wives for? Sustaining sexual deviancy?
Well I hope that you’ve already made your own assumptions,
Although to be honest I lack the requisite level of charismatic charm,
For a man of my standing needs to be on top of things least not in the bedroom,
Again what are wives for? Toiling until the morn?
I find your rate of progress quite astounding,
Although the choice is yours; misogyny or monogamy?
If you find that you gravitate towards the latter I extend my pity,
As a male you must abuse your right to be a chauvinistic bastard,
You must believe your own hype; you’ve to understand my words,
Women are merely a means to a miraculously morbid end,
An effective if costly leisure facility that you must cherish yet define,
What are husbands for?
)
