Inspo

Figs Vision - New York Home

Figs Vision. Great sounds. They totally remind me of The Cure.

As per usual. Gojira. I can't spend a day without listening to them.

Holyfuckingshit

Holyfuckingshit (2)

Every single poetry by John Keats

Wendy O Williams of The Plasmatics aka the queen.

Ministry

Thirty thousand feet above the ground.
Closer to the stars.
Multidimensional galaxies, and string theories have been expanded on your tainted palms, and your
Muted guitar.
Gathering signage, illuminating image in rage.
Sending smoke signal every mili-second to your Scottish tongue, and renaissance eyes.
Receivers are still demanding failures, and trophies.
Warm light, cold night.
Zero degrees outside, and we're still gazing at our evening star

Banshee

Necropolis.
00:00
Good night is a shaded veil of homicide.
Unbeknownst to them,
We are internally
Dead.

Sprinter

Lost in a deteriorating syllables,
My pressed eyes are the trigonometry symbols of geometrical forms of illusion.
Tangled up in a centrifugal force.
I forgot to let myself down.

Butterfly wings,
(Cover your eyes)
Angels
(Aim the trigger to the blooming spring)
Green intoxicated heart
(Breathe in, breathe out)
Skulls
(Why are we here?)

Horizontal street, three degrees sunrise.
Don't look back in disgrace.
I'm not afraid to lose this one.
I will see you again tomorrow.

Night Butterflies

Red light:
Blown out hair, cigarette in one hand, musical gimmick in the left.
Johnny Cash in her lips; you're my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Serenading each windowsill, batting lashes, faking whistles.

11 PM:
Hiding faces, exposing traces.
(Silk gown, blood red roses in her hair).
Persuading laces, flickering spaces.
(Blood on her skin, sweet and fair).

Morning:
The sea is always streaming in sapphire, and the sky is always burning in cerulean.
Her eyes are always in tears, weeping in the middle of cosmopolitan.
Nothing to lose. Still a lone freudian.
Good morning is a marketing strategy of fabricated reality, and nucleon.