#1
Rock the chandeliers!
Rock the chandeliers!
Make mine electric!
Make it electric!
The God Squad chips bits of the ice swan for their
drinks.
Rum Cannonball's make the guilt of genocide, pesticide,
and cyanide for the bride's side easier to hide behind.
"His name was Montana Matthew and he slipped
inside like a credit card through a door latch."
He took her daughters (and the old coux herself) and fucker their
eyeballs into their celeberums.
Incest!
Incest!
Now the God Squad scours every inch of the hedge maze
complex in search of monacles, burgandy pipes, and
hints of independant thought on the premisice.
And now those girls hold Sport, Coop and Skylar tight as
every muscle in their delapidated body pulls apart like
jean seams.
Like judgement for the lacross teams.
Like snuffing the 7-piece symphonia by all means.
And when the ball dropped the woman in the mink
fox-skin hat was scarred, striped and colored like
one of them tiger cats.
Seaman dripped from the taps.
The smell of menstration as thick in the nostrils as the accent
and stories of Irish lads too steaming mad to defend anything.
The guilt of gutter trash smells of colbine.
The mental fester of adultery ripens on their eyeball grape vines.
Now the maitre'd's and CEO's and "who's who's" sit
together (growing together), fusing ligaments, mumbling
about 'The foliage, the groundskeeping, and the High School
lads coming in from Ohio as Summer help."
This party's died.
A kick in the cock.
Full of dead pigeons.
Turn up my gain, make it a hot mic, and let me
blow the fuckers apart with my
old-time Rock n' Roll.
Poor advice.
Last edited by stellar_legs at Sep 20, 2006,
#2
Quote by stellar_legs
Like judgement for the lacross teams.
Like snuffing the 7-piece symphonia by all means.
And when the ball dropped the woman in the mink
fox-skin hat was scarred, striped and colored like
one of them tiger cats.
Seaman dripped from the taps.
The smell of menstration as thick in the nostrils as the accent
and stories of Irish lads too steaming mad to defend anything.
The guilt of gutter trash smells of colbine.
The mental fester of adultery ripens on their eyeball grape vines.
Now the maitre'd's and CEO's and "who's who's" sit
together (growing together), fusing ligaments, mumbling
about 'The foliage, the groundskeeping, and the High School
lads coming in from Ohio as Summer help."
This party's died.
A kick in the co.
Full of dead pigeons.
Turn up my gain, make it a hot mic, and let me
blow the ****ers apart with my
old-time Rock n' Roll.


That was like, one of the best second halves to a piece I've read. the first one wasn't too shabby either, hehe. I seriously can't fault it. It read like a dream and the imagery in the peice just really brought it home.

Damn, I've just given out two lame comments in a row. Ah well. A compliment is a compliment.

Great stuff.

Jamie
#4
agree with the dream comment. i hate it when people just say something's good, but now i know what it's like to read something and to be struck speechless, so...

it's good.

your tone was marvelous as well.

and not even gonna front with you, it made me think of back to the future.
So turn off the lights cause it's night on the Sun....

if anything i say comes acrosss as pretentious, tell me what an asshole i am.
#5
I love it. I love all of your work, stellar. And I especially like the Wes Anderson references in alot of your songs.
Wade in the water, child.