Little Death

Now bring it out Like a finger in the back of your mouth Cherubs and cerebellum, Tara at Sarah's wedding Sam marrying Sam Band pushed upon the finger of Sam's hairiest hand If that sickens you, you a bigot If it doesn't well then you wicked Such is life Odd as Egg McMuffins at night No answers, so let us watch these dancers Structure reformed gracefully being born On the pallet of dark greys, concaves and spirals Kaleidoscope into a Eiffel It ripples then it tidals Vacillates then it virals Babylons then it Bibles and others And tell me of the spinning mothers And today's mathematics for beloved And beasts' bellies covered like the cummerbunds of butlers How was your day, can I make what you say What I wanna hear, cause I want you here The hell that we raised to the heavens do anything for La petite mort, la petite mort They keep the bottles just to make glass houses Then climb up to the second floors and throw rocks out it Then expect not a volley in reply Some place vulnerable like prolly in the eye What of the chicken? what is it missin', is it dry? Did it die in some inhumane conditions so it didn't go relaxed And attention from its demise pulled all of the flavor from the fat And made it flat and rather lifeless Well there's a place that has a stunning [?] And more mercifully murdered Pisces But barbaric are still the prices It's rather niceless, apricot in dices and fromage slices My son will call risotto rices If and when he's left to his own devices, well How is your memory? Is it returning like a lemon tree To bear bitter fruit of what you meant to me Or was it slippin' like permission am I trippin' like Phil I feel I'm grippin' but maybe the transmission Still left out the life, also left out the will, grief Will cheese never touch your teeth Maybe like kosher beef Is it real, is it real, is it real Ha, hah! How at the date can I make you my break Cause I want you dear, ooh, I want you dear The hell that we raised to the heavens make [?] for Our petite mort, our petite mort So glad you're back, but not glad at that you're glad Where is the glamor in collapse? Where in the shatter of the facts shoves one back to a pattern of stab wounds Swoon ridden goons consumed and driven mad soon The attended years slowly fills with baboons That other monkey business Where killers go free cause a junkie's a funky witness Runny mascaras from the cunning mask wearers of death Bygone errors, sittin' like two oil derricks Separated by a sea of cooling num nums Reminiscing of an every day playing hum drum Where recognition went unnoticed And then solidified till it was stoic We should've been poets Somewhere between amateurs and grandmasters of iambic pentameter How are your chains, do they make you behave Keep you over here, by your overseer Fallen from grace down from heaven to memories [?] La petite mort, la petite mort