ThrillenCutt

Tying roses to ideas made of light & filament,

Make it thrilling make it cutting into my own sacrament.
Put the Pom upon the Yankee planted in the cameo,
And the dice will roll themselves in continental rodeo.

Then when the bulldog starts to cry,
You’ll see the vultures circle high.
Ought not to question his good deeds,
His word is half supposedly.

Claiming sisters for ourselves not thinking of anyone else,
Sending signals to our mother while she watches from the hills.
Put their names upon our foreheads read them back with poisoned lips,
And we’ll roll ourselves together into our own sacrilege.

Why? Why! Must she not be my kind?
Roped off, she’s soft & warm inside.
True tales are spun without the fringe,
False ones are tall because of Him.

Tying roses to a coffin made of vital ornaments,
Make them thrilling make them cutting into separate accidents.
Put the Bull onto the Rider make them swim in indigo,
And we’ll roll into a transmogrification blow by blow.