letra de bury (refutatio omnium haeresium) - the dead c
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[section 1]
genitals
birds on a starving face
making a [?] to my cold remorse
paris was a compass
i’d been in it for less
it was a night when the planets were wreathed in the dying garden
and seemingly had substituted the abattoirs for the guillotine
and the princess streaked her engines, picked their noses
and the sun with the left hand
moistens your little finger with the blood of iguanas
to beseech thee to renew the language
birds burn holes and fall like lead
mix up confusion, jungles of [?] and hatred
[?] and daylight sucked down
[section 2]
[?]
[section 3]
[instrumental]
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