powerstation smokestacks alined with
broken bleeding pigs
falling off the cliffs in imaculate sycronisation
tribal warfare accompanied by
native drum claps on paint cans and car doors
the fourth reich
the third world war
apocolypse is the new neon
turn me now kid
get yourself going
watch the mirror
youre the sound of glass huming
under wet fingertips
spiders with legs perched behind lace
have no business in our bedsheets
weve got to make it to the sunrise
steam comes over the rooftops
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