Little Death (feat. Nikki Jean)

Now bring it out

Like a finger in the back of your mouth

Cherubs and cerebellum, tara at sarah's wedding

Sam marrying sam

Band pushed upon the finger of sam's hairiest hand

If that sickens you, you a bigot

If it doesn't well you're wicked

Such is life

Odd as egg mcmuffins at night

No answers, so let us watch these dancers

Structure reformed gracefully being born

On the pallet of dark greys, concaves and spirals

Kaleidoscope into a eiffel

It ripples then it tidals

Vacillates then it virals

Babylons then it bibles and others

And tell me of the spinning mothers

And today's mathematics for beloved

And beasts' bellies covered like the cummerbunds of butlers

How was your day, can I make what you say

What I wanna hear, cause I want you here

The hell that we raised to the heavens do anything for

La petite mort, la petite mort

They keep the bottles just to make glass houses

Then climb up to the second floors and throw rocks out it

Then expect not a volley in reply

Some place vulnerable like prolly in the eye

What of the chicken? What is it missin', is it dry?

Did it die in some inhumane

Conditions so it didn't go relaxed

And attention from its demise pulled

All of the flavour from the fat

And made it flat and rather lifeless

Well there's a place that has a stunning [?]

And more mercifully murdered pisces

But barbaric are still the prices

It's rather niceless, apricot in dices and fromage slices

My son will call risotto rices

If and when he's left to his own devices, well

How is your memory?

Is it returning like a lemon tree

To bear bitter fruit of what you meant to me

Or was it slippin' like permission am I trippin' like phil

I feel I'm grippin' but maybe the transition

Still left out the life, also left out the will, grief

Will cheese never touch your teeth

Maybe like kosher beef

Is it real, is it real, is it real

Ha, hah!

How at the date can I make you my break

Cause I want you dear, ooh, I want you dear

The hell that we raised to the heavens make [?] for

Our petite mort, our petite mort

So glad you're back, but not glad at that you're [?]

Where is the glamour in collapse?

Where in the shatter of the facts shoves

One back to a pattern of stab wounds

Swoon ridden goons consumed and driven mad soon

The attended years slowly fills with baboons

That other monkey business

Where killers go free cause a junkie's a funky witness

Runny mascaras from the cunning mask wearers of death

Bygone errors, sittin' like two oil derricks

Separated by a sea of cooling num nums

Reminiscing of an every day playing hum drum

Where recognition went unnoticed

And then solidified till it was stoic

We should've been poets

Somewhere between amateurs

And grandmasters of iambic pentameter

How are your chains, do they make you behave

Keep you over here, by your overseer

Fallen from grace down from heaven to memories [?]

La petite mort, la petite mort