in la'kesh i'll hold my breat till i'm blue until the next time i see you
i'm recording the vocals in my underwear
your shit sounds like you...recorded...in a hoodie on a hot day
with a fucking ball cap tilted to cover your right eye
your shit is fake
you're play-acting
this ain't drama class it's unhealthy
it's only boosting your bipolarity
until the handkerchief of history covers us with its
times new roman black and white post script
i will wear lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms
looking like art deco in my september complexion and
red against blue skies
and have those pictures taken to be proof against the dull mood of your high school history teacher that
(we work color)
that we distributed the seeds of dead dandelions in cement surrounded city parks
that we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science
that we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl and never combed it or put it in braids
that we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans so that we would have something honest to dance to
something soulful to sing to and
sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window
because it was dark outside
and the fluorescence inside left shadows under our chests and sculpted the torso to look it's friday night fittest
yeah i'm vain
there was life here before there wasn't
and before that there wasn't
but seagulls still ate shallow water fish
morning boys still cast tall shadows
and all the while the stars are slowly separating
elizabeth
i don't know what you expect
i just want to hide my face
in the trench between your breasts
in la'kesh
i've got no heart pumping my chest
?
and i crave for your flesh
elizabeth
i don't know what you expect
i just want to leave my breath
and get between your legs
in la'kesh
when we meet again
i'll say hello you'll say...
and end will be end
these are songs to be listened to after i'm dead
when old women start wearing their hair grey
these are songs to help an ant find its shadow
songs to bump in your beam cruiser 2060
top down hair blowing in the absence of air
whooming to the shhhh
my version would be:
in la'kesh i'll hold my breat till i'm blue until the next time i see you
i'm recording the vocals in my underwear your shit sounds like you...recorded...in a hoodie on a hot day with a fucking ball cap tilted to cover your right eye your shit is fake you're play-acting this ain't drama class it's unhealthy it's only boosting your bipolarity
until the handkerchief of history covers us with its times new roman black and white post script i will wear lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms looking like art deco in my september complexion and red against blue skies and have those pictures taken to be proof against the dull mood of your high school history teacher that (we work color) that we distributed the seeds of dead dandelions in cement surrounded city parks that we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science that we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl and never combed it or put it in braids that we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans so that we would have something honest to dance to something soulful to sing to and sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window because it was dark outside and the fluorescence inside left shadows under our chests and sculpted the torso to look it's friday night fittest yeah i'm vain there was life here before there wasn't and before that there wasn't but seagulls still ate shallow water fish morning boys still cast tall shadows and all the while the stars are slowly separating
elizabeth i don't know what you expect i just want to hide my face in the trench between your breasts
in la'kesh i've got no heart pumping my chest ? and i crave for your flesh
elizabeth i don't know what you expect i just want to leave my breath and get between your legs
in la'kesh when we meet again i'll say hello you'll say... and end will be end
these are songs to be listened to after i'm dead when old women start wearing their hair grey these are songs to help an ant find its shadow songs to bump in your beam cruiser 2060 top down hair blowing in the absence of air whooming to the shhhh