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

   22/08/2011 at 22:58

   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

   22/08/2011 at 23:23

   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

   23/08/2011 at 00:14

   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

...