With a solid swell, staggering directionless in the moonlight.
A basilisk beat pounds from the dime store, into my rib cage and across the blush skeleton lake.
Like a graveyard tune that licks the back of your neck, promising serendipity.
It's witching hour now, and Lucifer is tuggin' at my collar, he's got his hoof on the throttle.
He's telling me "boy, I'm behind your eyes, gripping your optic nerves like a lead line of a pirate carriage, with steroid steeds gazing through ruby eyes".
He starts yelling "Open up! Spur! Hasten! Speed eternal! we don't stop. You're peripheral to everyone now, take a breath cloud, you carry no rain".
Well, I had no choice but to leak and turn this drag into a dance.
I'm a man who learned how to speak at urinals, kick honeydew with bronco boots and spit in the face of lions.
I busk in your shoes
I'm in your salt shaker
I somersault across your fork
And I'm at the bottle of every bottle.
Now the beats turned to thunder.
It's got zest, it's in your meatspace.
With a jazzbow on every corner and every harlequin set broken
It's easy to tower over the immortal.
I taunt their design in mezzo soprano, and piss out their fire.
I live in a salmon palace with bismuth walls, pink enough to make you sick with envy.
Hey, I may come off as scanty, but honey I'm fertile.
Gravity does not apply to thought.
Now the frogs are croaking with the wrathful beat, pounding, pounding.
STOP! SHUT UP!