i tear my face off while playing starry flowers

the power hour supernerd is no longer needed

uphold the revolutionary notions of the third eye seed

this is the result of the gutter society we lead

i don't need rhyme schemes or a coherent structure, mother

the lovers in their hyperreality aren't so clear

the beer that you drink is replaced by celebrity pamplets

we set standards against ourselves in order to get paid

give us back alias and we'll give you tom macdonald

the crisis of military generals taking a long walk through dante

my mother once threatened to take me to the hospital

punch off lottery tickets so you could "run that bitch up"

we: the nothingness inside ourselves, to stay as we are,

collar-wollar-bollar-dollar trying to fucking sleep

explosion! yay! no! maybe!

the conflicting reasoning for ourselves has yet to be known