Entranced

trying and failing man, im tryin and failing, i just cant get rid of this song.



why not we drift away and dieeeeeee-aaayyyyyyyy?
our dreams are constructed by those that deprive us of the dreams that are needed for their own needs. they will see if there are any needs that need to be fulfilled that will eventually turn out to be in the preference of the marching channels of tap water in the freezer who were transported to a different dimension in the place of rest in which they lagged and called it home.

the flow is uninterrupted the yeast of the grunting monster id is the freudian equivalent of the ultimate lie. the ultimate lie he gave us it seems is his creation of the id.

trippin? yes im trippin im trippin on grey goose tails and gun metal grey cars with winsheild wipers that actually work the younger cousins of the tree bearing monsters of the gallow marches will walk alongside the yeammering robots of the yellow tree jungles.

that was foretold in ancient texts that which was held true by none ther than the gunners of arsenal in the squad that fired thierry henry through unscrupulously underhanded methods.

the conspiracy tired and did not light up as expected and there were no thoughts conspired that were otherwise ignorant.
they were just real feelings on the emotions that possessed him at the moment he committed the act

when he beheaded her and he laid her in that position
so seductive
so beautiful
did he think that there would be hope for a tomorrow
a day that would never come as the guns of metal ring out in the distance
as the dogs bark and the sirens start swaying the waves of still night air

she was a beautiful one
he felt the slight tinge of regret
that still came to him from time to time

but this was the last one
he told hmself
this was the best one yet
this was
this was almost
almost like her.

he laid her bare
he kept a wisp of her hair
just to trace where
her head had been

so seductive
so rare
so infinitely mysterious
the red splotches creating a thing of beauty
in her lost little slumber
never to wake up to this land
of demunitive love
of fake sentiments
of faraway consciousness

the bared glory of her corpse came to decorate walls
as testament to her gorgeous struggles
her breasts of round niceness
would never wake up to the cold evening air
and now she would never know
the perils of life and despair.

it was a gift he'd given her
a swift death
of squirming mangaloose
of ecstatic euphoric love
a swift yet exciting
death.