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Bluelight Crew
silent liturgies becomes splinters of glass on my lips,
the levitical lamb with sultry eyes for the cleaver
the sky has the color of junk in a spoon
my cognition's a virus that spikes my fever
behind my closed eyelids I stand in a river
where bodies float and move with no sound
they're slowly drifting like leaves in a pond
and bloated they spin with their faces down
we murder the living while praising the dead
our empires built on bones from burial-sites
as pets of the gods we're subjected to penance
the seven cord whip bleeds us dry off contrite
like goldfish that anxiously wait for the flush
with fragmented thoughts and stilted speech
and so we circle the hole of that watery grave
the porcelain casket, we're buried in bleach
the levitical lamb with sultry eyes for the cleaver
the sky has the color of junk in a spoon
my cognition's a virus that spikes my fever
behind my closed eyelids I stand in a river
where bodies float and move with no sound
they're slowly drifting like leaves in a pond
and bloated they spin with their faces down
we murder the living while praising the dead
our empires built on bones from burial-sites
as pets of the gods we're subjected to penance
the seven cord whip bleeds us dry off contrite
like goldfish that anxiously wait for the flush
with fragmented thoughts and stilted speech
and so we circle the hole of that watery grave
the porcelain casket, we're buried in bleach
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