like athena out of her father's head.
the night's dark. the word's are bleak and all i can hear is a dull thundering, a bleeding bass and all i can taste is dull thundering, a bleeding bass.
you'd think i'd have worked this out by now, learned how to play the game the way i threatened to,like the competitive long streak of piss i told you i was. like the competitive long streak of piss you are. shimmering, stinking, searing.
halfway up the stairs, halfway out of my mind, halfway round the world, you've got it all worked out, and i could explode. i could explode and take you with me.
there's cracked skin, bruised ribs and i was always far too physical for a coldcuntedbitch who turned you down in train stations. all the delusions we live on, rely on, are flooding out of my fingers, like some sort of Moloch in my mind, like Dickinson's nails on my coffin and I can see this now for what it is. this ain't art, it ain't poetry, it's not even hack hip hop, it's a last stand.
it's a last stand, fucking last stand number three hundred and eighty three. i work in threes, i work in threes, i work in threes because you have to snap your fingers to get my attention, you have to buy me a large drink, you have to work three times as hard with me because i will push and pull and push and pull and push and pull because i can.
because i can.
that's been the only reason i've ever done anything.
because i can.
so what happens when i can't?