Leather, Bristles, Studs, Acne-Neurotic Fiction

Paint the town in magenta with the bristles of my temper Wet kiss at the normie bar turns the heads of the club members An older yearning eye, reflected in the light on the whites of my incisors A bitter tasting fruit, a life of half the truth finds the pain in my bravado Pique your indignation Alienation: condemned from the start by your deviant heart You thought we got complacent You were our agent: just missed by the grip of the paradigm shift You fought, and you cried, and you laboured, and you died, and our symbols are all borrowed You didn’t have the agency to free your mind so your ass could never follow Our asses have the agency to unravel two millennia of celibacy I’ve got a pseudo spiritual need I explain to everybody who looks at me Stained turmeric on my fingertips and I smell like rich patchouli I want that NRE so love me now indiscriminately