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Monday, November 28, 2005
Battle of the Bay, sunday, november 3, 2002
i have to admit my arms do drift to the armor that shines on a knight. but for the knight to spend the night he's gotta bend the rules to the room in which i sleep
to go to or not to go to just let my head and hand flor what the can and trust it to the machine in my brain that keeps me insane can you explain what the deal is i feel it if you can do it to a beat then its the feet that take to my street and wander into my circle with the shape of a square that stretches and strokes in different directions and sections the section the section the sexual cover is not the lover that conforms but the lover that informs, to be informed or not to be in form without the context of love, sex just becomes the next way to screw someone. Over. Over the top, under the bottom, the missionaries think they got em in a box of rain that the dead be grateful sane. Acid rain torpedo pain the can of paint releases faint traces of chemicals that kill the brain but of course we don't say it cuz we're all plain sheep to follow the mission.
Impossible to follow the train of thought that pulled out of my stationary
inclination for restoration, my ration of wit didn't hit the fashion
plate cuz instead i used a bowl to turn my head to the other side, the
dark side of the moon, and soon i will be in tune with the ride that i take on
a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and a mystical breeze that freeze me from the
confines of the classical times? no no no the jurassical times, push the rhymes further and
further away from the times yo daddy stopped, dropped, and rolled, papa rolled like a
stone, rocked it to the bone, rocked and rolled, we were often told that if we rocked the boat then we were turncoats, it was us or them so we condemned them, fenced them in
behind the wires and started the fires that smoked and smothered and took some other
mother, not mine, so i'm fine, except i'm not fine so i'll realign myself to the powers that i
be, that i see, in me. in we. we be together to gather around in spoken sound, just let the peace abound.
to go to or not to go to just let my head and hand flor what the can and trust it to the machine in my brain that keeps me insane can you explain what the deal is i feel it if you can do it to a beat then its the feet that take to my street and wander into my circle with the shape of a square that stretches and strokes in different directions and sections the section the section the sexual cover is not the lover that conforms but the lover that informs, to be informed or not to be in form without the context of love, sex just becomes the next way to screw someone. Over. Over the top, under the bottom, the missionaries think they got em in a box of rain that the dead be grateful sane. Acid rain torpedo pain the can of paint releases faint traces of chemicals that kill the brain but of course we don't say it cuz we're all plain sheep to follow the mission.
Impossible to follow the train of thought that pulled out of my stationary
inclination for restoration, my ration of wit didn't hit the fashion
plate cuz instead i used a bowl to turn my head to the other side, the
dark side of the moon, and soon i will be in tune with the ride that i take on
a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and a mystical breeze that freeze me from the
confines of the classical times? no no no the jurassical times, push the rhymes further and
further away from the times yo daddy stopped, dropped, and rolled, papa rolled like a
stone, rocked it to the bone, rocked and rolled, we were often told that if we rocked the boat then we were turncoats, it was us or them so we condemned them, fenced them in
behind the wires and started the fires that smoked and smothered and took some other
mother, not mine, so i'm fine, except i'm not fine so i'll realign myself to the powers that i
be, that i see, in me. in we. we be together to gather around in spoken sound, just let the peace abound.
