Cut open by the the hands of a Clock. Again.
Well it tickles it burns it gives me gass
Picking my teeth with a pendulum
Half way to a quarter past the past that I forgot that I papered my insides with so many faces.
Never an old face. Every face remains fresh and bright.
How many anchors now?
Take root! Take stock! Take pride!
Take a hike! The past is the puture putrid past future
Stuck to identity stuck to recognition stuck to fear of invention
Bulldoze bash smash exterminate and eraze and eraaaaaZzzzzzzzzzze
Quiet breath in the air