Good Morning Mr. p,
His element on the stove roaring and the glass pipe with an inside gloss come matt finish, a hunger burning, a wild wind turning, lost in the winters leaves, a cave hiding a sneeze the meths like ice begging to please, the whirls and twirls of smoke and no bubbles corrupting the troubles cooked by a mixed up - cocktail sleaze,
Mr. Meth’s at his best, six foot tall and bullet proof, the truth and sleuth a three day hunger begins to freeze, a form and a frown the glassy eyed clown inhaling the disease, exhausting the G’s casino sleaze’ no hero’s please.
If just one of you met Mr. P before his IQ had failed, yes you could have perhaps resisted the waste and paste from the swiveling cortex core and white trash whores breeding around his back door, multiple personalities and bi polar pores, begging for more, bending over his desk, loving thy guest’s and a self pity test gone horribly wrong.
A cloud of dust and a cough infected chest, this Mr. Meth’s at his best will be your death. A house once earned lost, once a new Car and Truck and daily Fuck… ducked, a twitchy high and friends waving goodbye, a sinking ship for that addictive hit, you now suck dick.
Emotional Waves feeding your Tide staying alive, a bait less hook, no trace, tangled, a sale and vale tail between your legs, you egg.
This I guess said and sung has not just begun but hour-glassed from slaved societies graves. The Rebel Rebelling, Silenced beneath the minority monotony machine. Just remember, No One can hear you scream.
Copyright 2007 Renton Innes, Auckland - Aotearoa. All Rights Reserved.
- ► 2008 (9)