Texty:
The Blood Brothers Burn Piano Island Burn

what? Burn Piano Island Burn! Coconut pupils never shut? Burn Piano Island Burn! Jigsaw babies and their bamboo stilts? Burn Piano Island Burn! Charred

(Fake fake flowers, fake funeral) This room is a fluorescent tomb: it's brazen bulbs mimic death's hyena croon. He pulls on her wires, she jerks to

be scanned/scammed. And when they've hurled every gutted couch cushion from the living room into your fathers swimming pool, you're bobbing chlorine apples in the broth

plastering the air with the filthy film of prayer. We don't need a blueprint, we don't need a blue print To burn our manuscripts naked and new. We don

When the french maids cigarette turns burns like a boiling tapeworm (that was really something baby, that was really something baby) When the chandeleers

My heart is a black haunted loom, weaving jackets for children who'll never be born. My hands are abandoned factories manufacturing heartbreak and hate

Ambulance X extracts several consultants from the slow gumming death at the office orifice. Ambulance Y imprisons the sigh of the recent amputee and