For inside the organ grinder the tiny shredded monkeys squirm. You detest your logic and you seek words in refuse. Betwixt the clockwork of shadows your tendrils squirm, churning the unfathomable mechanization of the multiverse. You are a monstrous thing, let us celebrate.
I have got you a gift, I have taken care of all the fees and paperwork that will ensure that your body be skinned upon your death and you will donate your human leather to the arts. your body will be cremated and your ashes and blood used to make coarse paint, as you re-enter the cycle of your penultimate absolution. Granted all paranormal incursion will not be covered in your insurance and you will be fined for any penalties beyond algor mortis.
Turn the knob, change time frequency. The rattling of the conductor's wand upon the cheap sheet music stand snaps you into the abstract. You are a freakish fly overhearing the bar. "'tell me, does your dream soil need plowing, astralgasms are my specialty', Is what she was told, and they never found the body."
"Chemical burns are what I run my needle through, It dilates the natural chaos of the flesh and brings out the inner turmoil in the colors. Here, lemme show you the procedure."
"when you manage to get the body out of the coffin, ditch the shovel and go back to the blade. I found that the powder left over from the eyeball can be scraped out of the socket and when blown creates great necromancy channels."
The hissing encroaches upon your patience and you begin to waft out of the ceiling's pores. and drift into shadows. Time is over now, just you and your big 'ol head. Celestial cosmetics like bandages over black holes. You drift. and the jazz kicks up, suddenly you have feet. You're soaring, meat doll. You change bodies change times change freedoms and are back to your boring-on-the-outside, freaksquirt-nuthouse on the inside visage you decided to wear long ago back when you were still nestled in the amniotic gourd of recreational reincarnation.
You grit your teeth, tasting soil. Your own ashes, cremated or not, you got buried either way. But that's like get dirt on a marble that's forever falling down. That is, if you could remember gravity holding the wand or not. Granted, the meds have worn off and everyone's going to think you're an abomination either way, here, a Top Hat. Crack open the asylum doors and let this abhorrent Funkchunker lurch out into it. Chunk your funks, yeah so what.
The straight jacket drags on the road, and you pretend it is making you wiser. Every breath smells like funeral flowers and subtle rot. "If you can remember me, let us sway together in the cemetery breeze", escape empty lips.
Broken hearts still beat with broken parts, and the path is ever waning. Your necropolis lies in constant motion, and instead of resting in peace, you'll have insomnia in anarchy.
Deathcab for Cutie