Mute Print

Take this record. Start with self-mockery. A master work of toilet tissue, but the words are sexy. To a happy corpse; washed up, I am already. I went from a romantic dream to a wet spot on the sheets. Give it one last try til the next one more last t

Fuck genius, what's an artist? Dead words devoid of meaning, let's drop them I know where they can go, your neck is blocking the hole Let's start from zero, now listen close This is the rip, the scream that ignites the world We're slaves to radios, w

If I can, then I will twist this knife until it snaps at the hilt To make you feel this damage done is real When I will I recover from a wound that never heals? The answer's always never, forget November and suffer with a smile Blood-soaked t-shirt w

I will make myself, a mile from the racetrack, drag my losses home. And we float with parasites all our lives. There's me with the geriatrics at the slot machines. There's me, the embodiment of how slow life can be. There's me. Their dead eyes are gl