What do you do when you're out of rope?
Loneliness closes round your throat.
They never have understood the importance to shine.
The rest of them, all of them, every single person you close out.
Detonate your anger and it regulates your life.
Cartwheeling over the short-hand typists.
The claws behind your eyes, the smiling profession's distant occupant.
Flip your face for a fee.

Grab a green plastic bag, melt it into goo.
Stir until waxen.
Paint the solution to a misshapen metal platter.
Then paste micromachines in a geometric pattern to the platter.  And sell it for lots of money.
People will come for miles to see your modern statement art.

Drive the sound through the amplifier. Ride it like a cosmic serpent, then flip a switch and melt the turntables.
If you don't keep folks on their toes, they'll forget they have them at all. We sharpen the minds of the future like pencils which will scrawl their graffiti on the subway toilet stops along the information superhighway. Artists and vandals alike will find refuge in our motivations.
Stomp the beat of the electric tribe.

Truth be told, it's a sight to behold, this thing I can't put my finger on.
Blonde Lights

That little
pink demon, stuck my hands to the head-stones
plastic starfish
sewn to the waist of her hemp-coat
dresses herself in kohl and flash-bulb fantasies
suiting the character nuance
she chose this sight, and it's one to behold
the things we can't put our fingers on.
heyaliya
who i am
our paradise
lost into the blonde lights
heyaliya
what i am to you
we are the
discarded ones.
kiss of death
i marked you, couldn't have wanted you less
just the piece of paper that i scratch myself on
kiss of death
i marked you, couldn't have wanted you less
our paradise lost into the blonde lights