grotesque landscapes in sight
Traffic of minds and city lights
Dead poetry, floating over black sea
Fornication and caresses
Tongues licking and a barman sinking
In the ruins of an old magic cocktail bar
Marching through exstinguished cigarretes and portraits of
models that fail in the art of selling themselves
High heels, carmine lipsticks, a plastic smell overhead.
We are Rome
we are decadence,we are grace.
we are the third world,we are elite
Those stairs are too large for my diminished legs
Vice in the air tempts me but serve me, again
Your name is forbbiden, dont consume this last minute
Make it eternal,just as it once was,again
A Room with a central column, a pedestal
Where flesh becomes merch and machines dance
Am I sad? I am sad.
The trail of loath,love for letting someone be something
play a role, a bible on the shelf to remid ourselves
we'll always be slaves.
Hail the Queen!
Neon skies announce the time to die, lying under the sweat of a mass of shit
Long has passed since the path bifurcated, but not enough to forget to admit
that at some point something was made wrong