love is no light

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Miranda, That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore: B. Pour Another Icepick // The Mars Volta

I think I’ve become one of the others.

There was a frail syrup dripping off his lap danced lapel.
Punctuated by her becrepit prowl she, washed down the hatching gizzard.
Soft as a mane of needles, his orifice icicles hemorrhaged by combing her torso to a pile.
Perspired, the trophy shelves made room for his collapse, she was a mink handjob in sarcophagus heels.

Bring me to my knees, tead the sharpened lines.
All my arms, bled me blind.
Faucet leaks in shadows,spilling from, morgue lancet caressed your fontanelle.
I’ve sworn to kill, every last one, every last one.
Panic in the shakes of the wounded, Panic in the worms.
Onto the floor And out of your mouth and Out of your eyelids.

No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches.
No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches.

All your dreams, splintered off.
Leech by leech, on this catafalque.
Anyone will tell you, yes anyone.
Chance had me setting the trip wire alarm.
Your mother flirted, with disease, when she skinned that costume by it’s navel strings.
Panic in the shakes of the wounded, panic in the worms, onto the floor, and out of your mouth out of your eyelids.

No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches

Shock lest shackles free you, Volt face cons.
Abandon you again, I won’t feel, not this time.