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about

Your religion should be your imagination. That is all the existing ones anyway.

lyrics

This is the story of my asshole,
Whose breath bruised feet
In a valley of stars.

It was another blow against my bed plaster
And then, like my hand, probably painful.
It were a mark of shame.

Was the restful scene the restful scene on the stems?
Was there fabric?
I no longer know.

Refrigerated food power,
A virtue for oysters and silk,
Little anemone cakes,
Vegetables cook the adults.

Jeanne-Pierre had talked,
I had begun to bleed.

I knew cul de sac heads.

Swinging from a branch badly,
I saw the direction in which man inflicts the nightmare.

Remember the announcement about the cloud!
In paradise, Jesus was devastating.

God, his sandals, his beard,
Travels in a world of people pursued;
Fists clenched,
Like slaves to udders,
Milky millions with hips swaying in heavy make-up,
Desire slipping into each other,
Strutting out their miseries,
Without the money to catch a cold

I don’t like to wall when I foot,
I’ll plunge it into Henrietta,
To the other end of my mother,
To the castle words demolished!
There’s no mental patients in my head-hospital.

credits

from Only Ornaments Died in the Conflict, released December 23, 2010

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Coat Hanger Cornwall, UK

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