nobody move, there's blood on the floor
bones grinding into the dirty doors
into flour and grains, meal replacements
retinas blasted, winds brought in from the east
and somebody tells me things of
incorrect placements
forced poetry? astounding funk, ripped open by teeth
with frayed baselines, find me meaning in these words
try to find a topic to speak of
talk on dying phone lines and die while talking on phone lines
stir the very depths of what seems like my soul:
give me meaning? define me, quantify me,
identify me, a label-less phenomenon, into
a category that
catches your fancy, I couldn't care less at this point
where being a free man is worse than landing behind bars
and god doesn't seem to exist; where's his divine plan
where's his blinding voice that blooms in corridors
where's his need to micromanage the misfortunes and desires of mankind?
someone tell me the things I don't know
come from the vast expanse of nothingness we call the heavens
and bring me back to wherever the hell you came from
(you should be happy - these are the most romantic words I've ever said.)
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if u wanna find out what the title and first line were inspired by, listen to "them changes" by thundercat. also, soviet funk is a gift from god.
