It’s spoken through stingy sage that Sulfur shores were formed by a Constant river of gin and scotch Flowing through a desirous heart Lost among the calamity of passion and The two-ton secrets of solemnity Forever existing, no longer sure Of their own mutuality It’s been said that one could find Beneath the chandelier graveyards A criminal of disasters, a jester for The final page-turning machines Sought among the simplicity of insolence And the stripes along the jaw-lines Of the breeding grounds, this soil Isn’t out to stud quite yet It’s been seen through the thinnest eyes Of the scourging scores of scowlers That the heart of Saturday nights Are littered with the hearts of minds Caught among the shrill desires of The callow children believing In their insolence, yet they Aren’t the furious end of death
They may all be dead in the most neutral sense, but still is the carrion for the feasting! Still is the clay with which we construct our solemn Temples made of the Shit of the Earth! eMBeMLaHV!
I say that these residual energy fluctuations that emanate from the swamp of debauch that is social evolution are ripe for the transforming! If only more understood the fundemental mode of operating their filters! eMBeMLaHV!
