mardi 25 octobre 2011

The Ramones - Perfect Day [RARE]

  1. To my books

    Listen while I vomish, you Name of a paperback treasure,

    listen the rendered delight out my throat

    along in the past your Name I have noted

    and sand of runned out wealth has given on the toilet the fall of your measure.

    My coloured brother merging from white shadow off the market,

    smiles at me as I have been foolish of such a spirit to target.

    Let you be dead as my eyes on the lines of your mind are tired,

    you are no bore, but so more similar to a stone, to an out-fired

    friend I won’t see neither remember, me indeed as soft and dry and dirty

    as you are, because you were among the paper sheeps of my disorder

    the gentle soul I trusted to think on…

  2. To my books

    the burning of books is sweet as the murdering of God

    kind sugar of blood in the steam of whipped words

    the burning of books is the work of bother on a gorgeous corpse

    corrupted from moisture time ago and issued from the cunt of mothers

    machine mothers that cry crocodile tears on the phone of coal

    the cinder black wings of enormous flies as warriors’ end

    the hole of my back will trumpet to celebrate the burning of love

    as I am tired of listening lessons on my wall, this art of silence

    in a trend of closing doors around my skin balls, such a pain

    let the flamme whisper the refrain of your stinking glove

    you the hundred face of your own law will know this insane

    delight of my hate, and no more

  3. To my books

    dealbate Latonam et rumpite libros

    whichy’s suchy a lovingly boy ?

    Me experienced no interest in texty amateurs

    Me mama bubble of a pope’s dream and a cow’s whomb full of uranium

    Me have no time, no time to take kisses or to prefer things

    Friends of mine are mille e tre judges in sleepy autodafé

    octopus is delicious, please don’t talk while he masturbates

    specially tentacles on the columns of my legs to titillate them as you couldn’t

    them tentacles and pentacles on my chair cushion to fashion the relation

    between impossible to listen and permitted birds of my dildo

    do you want to use it ? … I mean, on you ? your hand stealing the breath

    of my mouth as my dildo will penetrate, so counter-revolutionnary a dick

    let it be kick as my real cock is not appropriate to be set on a book

    neither on those I used to call my books

  4. To my books

    is it a bottle ? is it mostly a monster of the night ? or a knife,

    walking on a rope betwenn the towers of eternal happy wife ?

    is it a cup of tea, the taste of unconcious abortion a smile

    for a while I failled to smile for a toothy mile of useless life

    warm is the gut, the organ of my own church, full of shit and vile

    expensive diets of illness and conviction

    the fridge is cold, and quiet, my prayers sound clear inside

    the library is nowhere, yet I’m never introducted home

    Rome, uncle Tom, a gauche caffard topic I must give up to your belongings


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