I feel the deadly little tug of your re-animated slum,
but your halogens are making me sick,
distracted and dispondent,
aggravated and neurotic.
I suppose I flunked your chemistry test.
Suck it up?
We can hardly draw a breath from your atmosphere.
It burns on our lips.
We're auto-erotic, asphyxiated and moronic
screaming out "Dear God, is this all there is?".
We can't handle this, so we tell our therapists.
Whip out our bitch-lists
and beg Miss Throw-Me-A-Break.
This is no baggage claim.
There's no security from being stuck in the mud
and whipped by the rain.
Why do you shun
all our mechanics and obsessions?
Would you have us with our maws in a clamp?
Or have us solemn and static?
Is my imago so dramatic
that you hand out medication for it?
There's outstanding pills
in little candy shells.
We feel swell, don't we?
This is great!
We've been to Canto VI of this Necropolis.
We've seen your crypt-lit mud-stick -- phallic and fake.
We're not brigata spendereccia from Circle Three.
We aren't your ghosts. We are the real enemy.
We're going out. There's a party.
We're going to have some fun in Circle One.
You can always find me there.
This is our end-all.
Come blow us a kiss, doll.
We're clearing out of Necropolis.
So go scatter all your atoms
and keep faking those orgasms all you want.
You won't find us anywhere near.
All the heathen snakes
you've beaten up in this place
with your fat-lip slap-stick hits to the face.
Some outstanding bliss,
a halelujia kiss --
that's all we want,
but your junk, baby, gets in our way.
