| Current music: | std- my sweet fracture |
Cecilia And The Silhouette Saloon -The blood brothers
murder = white out. cancer = birth blouse. mirror = perfect glass spouse.
oil = sex paint. shower = water saint.
Death decodes the howls from our hands.
skull = noise nest. TV = fuck test. mirror = siamese gun kiss.
sugar = birth bait. murder = loves fate.
death distills the camouflage from our dance. death inverts the red from romance.
Death x-rays the angels of chance. death; the anti mirror of infants.
Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.
When cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cacoon,
she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon.
The player piano mumbling crippled jigs,
black widows knitting victimless wigs.
When cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips
she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread,
like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips.
Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead.
(time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.)
But that locket spinning around her neck,
whose hearth heats a dead valentine,
you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave.
Where is his voice now?
A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings,
Where is his blushed cheek now,
A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter.
Where are those sex ripened lips,
his kiss print still warm on several necks.
Where is love now?
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