Mythical

What do you call a mythological beast versed in rap? A tupacabre.

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City life

Symphonies and symphonies raucously laugh

pealed lambs, bleating

Men in suits

Madness marching and gladness guzzling

Buy now, pay.

The wizzwirr and howling lights of carnivorous cars crawl across this city in ziggzaggs

Nobody cares who stands in their way

Find a room, pay for it, find food.

Loki lenders left and right

It all costs too much

no rest without a fight

this is the greatest creation of man

Opulent opacities dance before our bloodshot eyes

nobody cares if these streets swallow us alive

cracks were made to fall through

this city is ravenous

snarling and swirling, we all just want in

no ground, not a foot to stand on, it’s snapping with its drunken feral jaws and rent in its desperate eyes

staring as the strings strike higher, louder, cacophony and smoke and swirls of light

blinding barely beaches bellow

STOP!

I just need a minute to breathe

in this mess of city lights and rent I don’t know if I can pay

just to gather myself

I need someone to hold me and tell me it’ll be all right

a hand to hold and eyes to look into, a smile to miss while I’m away

I need someone to be there so I’m not alone

so that through all this mess, somehow, it’ll be okay

Lived

Crescendos, played on repeat in the pale eyes of yesteryear,

that youth long buried by the planks that make up the front door

of a home built from hands and hearts and hopes and all that comes therewith

now faded into aged contend

Continents untread upon now rest in back of mind

fading ever fading

plans made and left to wonder

if ever that fateful day should come

but the days are getting fewer

the air is getting thinner

the hair is getting thinner

those pale eyes are closing

longer and longer, eyelids kiss

crescendos played on repeat

drowning all else out

crescendos played on repeat

fading ever fading

crescendos played on repeat

plans made silent

crescendos played on repeat

crescendos played on repeat

Untitled

A million thin orange lines across a white field

A million questions spat

A million tears on a life full of glory

A million beats on a heart full of woe

Not is evitable in some grave one day to sink

And yet all ways chosen is how and whether to squander and bathe in anguish the time in this life in which we so violently awaken

Dreams built of ice may to tears thaw

And yet no truth is clearer than that seen through them

Regardless, we breathe

Young until we’re old and old until we’re dead

Passion brings purpose and apathy rides a cool summer breeze

Real eels that squeal.

Real Englishmen take their tea with slugs.

Real Scotchmen take their sea with pugs.

These are non debatable facts. One may hail from England, land of the Engls, but if one does not take their tea with slugs, then a true Englishman that person is not. One may be some smooth, mysterious gentleman with a cool air and a weeping moustache, but if one does not take their tea with slugs, then a true Englishman that person is not.

As for the pugs, well, if you roll them, they’re a fish. If you have two, they can wear a bra.