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So cry on bitch why aren't you laughing now 2:50 p.m. 2005-11-30 quickturn catastrophe child as the shambling walk of the return revisits old fay and old kin. There will be time enough for your murders when the day turns and filtered light permeates extraneous prism to caurterize sincerest bloodletting. Split their cappilaries to summon the flooding, cathartic scene the crimson rivers of you and me and the intertwining of bloodlines over time. Clutch tight to old ways with splintered fingers and stained nails exhale in the same repetion of endless straits and throes that you pretend transcend daylight. Old promises bind like rings around your fingers, sometimes they get lost in the gutters after a hard rain or in the trees of autumn that used to carress your hair. And old truths are your lullaby when you fall asleep, you assure yourself that two years after the stain will have faded and things could go back together. The fane of the Architect as you sit in your room cold and dark lit by guttering candles painting plans and studying the symmetry of the way you've fucked it all up. Until you examine the shards they will remain transparent on the floor, unseen but a constant cycle of wounding spouting blood from your soles (souls). There's a rare moon coming out tonight and there will be a reckoning. "So come on bitch why aren't you laughing now?" back & forth |