NOS in my tank
Fucking around
Not me
On the ground
Spinning my wounds in a web on the ground.
Repeat rhymes around and around
Fucking around.
Well that\'s a lie.
See.
Actually rhymes actuate heathens.
Factually facing unfaithful demons.
If it ain\'t for me, you\'d\'ve never wrote Odiosity
Not Fucking calling back to other artists poetry
Never Fuck around with a guy with a heart
With an arrow tip and scar sticking right through his arm
Not quite at the heart of it all.
But it damn right hurts, right.
So cushion the fall.
All falls down in eyes of evil infantry
But infants see all hope and peace in war and bleeding broken thieves.
We plant the seed for hope to feed and search the beach, for trees make leaves.
And leaves leave dust for worms to feed.
And feed the mites that might succeed.
All flies up in winding weeze of freezing breeze
And sees the seeds travel the seas of seven sins to soon be freed and preyed upon by birds of greed to be bitten and sieze to dream.
Sands.
Rocks.
Just wet mossy stones across and endless beach to soon be breached as I would try to reach the ends of space and time with each rock I climb.
Gaps.
Flocks.
Of diesel seagulls freeze all and light up the skies with grey and laugh and pray for me to fall my way into the gaps that I can never climb.
Lists.
Of memories.
Not clear to me.
Just words that seem.
To pop into my head easily.
Just memories.
Like rockpools climbed and slipped between and seagulls staring into my Stuck Stuck Soul I had gotten into a predicament of comedy.
I will try.
To rack my brain.
None of this.
Will work at all.
But I\'d prefer an accurate account of memories than sing song sing along false and wrong word of tongue.
The car it glistens with dull Britain.
Dull I know. Thats how I\'m livin.
The rolling stones and tire friction.
And 10s EDM playing, I listen.
The sign of Britain is the rain.
But no rain is to be seen.
As we approach the sea.
A sign for Plymouth, South in Britain.
Contrasts against the dunes of beach.
Grass has bitten at the million
Of others who have walked it bare feet.
Well suddenly I find myself inside the mouth of rock pool slides.
Slide away from normal rhyme, irregular at an irregular time.
I slide on shells and slip.
I fall and hard I hit.
Fucking painful it had been.
Smack hard on my coccyx.
Fall again no matter how locked in.
I step on slimey toxin.
A monolith of anomalous enormous anemones are my enemies of my anatomy and irrationality to poke and squeeze their squidgy selves, I purely squeeze and squeeze.
A nap.
And snap.
Another memory.
Another memory.
Another memory.
I wait to tell it.
For it is my memory.
THAT memory you need to just to BE.
That memory is in my head and will not leave.
And good for me.
The car it glistens with dull Britain.
Dull I know. Thats how I\'m livin.
The rolling stones and tire friction.
And 10s EDM playing, I listen.
The sign of Britain is the rain.
But no rain is to be seen.
As we approach the sea.
A sign for Plymouth, South in Britain.
Contrasts against the dunes of beach.
Grass has bitten at the million
Of others who have walked it bare feet.
Well funnily I hide myself inside the mouth of long lost lies.
Thats what memories are.
You can\'t trust them
And I don\'t know why.