gone are the days when the movies were magical. i looked up at the stars; they were cut out and folded into skyscrapers. and i remember the world's rendered upended, shadowless deep. trudging slowly over shallow carpet through a half century. _ down through adam smiths' wet dream. i woke up from a sweet hallucination measuring 10x23.

and it's me and kandinsky wondering if you're at all ashamed. we're the ones with the warhols and the kerosene. there's a fat man in the corner lecturing about some black slam while my heart and my mind fight to the death.

mondrian, paint me a boxing ring. my fists are bleeding. my fingers ache to the bone. and the lines you see after 1943, may they all melt into naked figures and be pretty.

and it's me and kandinsky wondering if you're at all ashamed. we're the ones with the warhols and the kerosene.

buildings may fall and bridges may crack, but [brushstrokes?], they just bend while my heart and my mind fight to the death.

this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man, this modern man.


Lyrics submitted by charcoalsketch

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