letra de turin under siege - feral birth
s-x, my hex; the city and three x
some turmoil news, and a riot to vex
my inner world, for, even without
the vogue did seem to be turning into
a ruse to f-ck whomever one wished to
(a mist kept stealing in from the east…)
along the river, to trade in fever
silent shiver, stalking under cover
a slender girl, blonde, and barely legal
(soon to cause my vigils to splinter…)
drew the line up from crystal dust
thus starting a one-way vortex o’ l-sts
one. two. threesome—
elevation!
one too many
insinuations…
morning glory, nighttime elation
daylight classes to drug addiction
pushing blindly throughout the city
boys, and boys, were giving it up to
f-cking, nightly, in her apartment
apartheid or s-xual confinement?
rate me late, belated, benighted
searching words for the new enlightened
i chanced to meet her some five years late
would chance, then, have me tempt my own fate?
back home, to atone, engulfed by the tide
apt to jerk off, crying not by her side
one. two. threesome—
s-xcapism!
fifteen, i mean, eighteen—i pine! a white-lined, gold-haired nymph
(drunk on absinthe, broke, out of date, i would dance to an 8-bit synth…)
in line to f-ck; aligned to get lucky holding iceberg drinks
them boys would dredge but, on the edge, ’twas she who filled ’em up to the brink
…and, me?
me! o, my!—me? i, ‘tween her thighs
eating glass from behind twin eyes
when, snorting coke along some guy’s c-ck
she’d have me blow those mirrors back into
jungle sands wherein to be drowning
was a matter of second-timing
neither were we really engaged
the times she drove me nuts but, deranged
i’d only change the soft from the hardware
pressing start so to start again
she (oh, my!—suspicion would dog me…)
blowing me off, mocking my sighs
one too many…
s-xorcism!
fifteen, i mean, eighteen—i pine! a white-lined, gold-haired nymph
drunk on absinthe, broke, out of date, i would dance to an 8-bit synth…
in line to f-ck; aligned to get lucky holding iceberg drinks
them boys would dredge but, on the edge, ’twas she who filled ’em up to the brink
come
come-come!
come
come-come!
hope is gone
come
come-come!
cl!ck
cl!ck-cl!ck!
sick
sick-sick!
she ain’t done
come undone!
come
come-come!
come
come-come!
hope is gone
fifteen, i mean, eighteen, i pine!—a white-lined, gold-haired nymph
devoid of lymph, blood-less, replete, i would swoon to an 8-bit synth…
in line to f-ck; maligned to get lucky holding iceberg drinks
turin did pledge that, on the edge, ’twas she who’d filled me up to the brink
…go!
turin under siege!
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