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Michael McGuire
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Process Apocalypse
We don't bloom until we blossom we bloom until we rot, Soldiers of the weather and the sum of what we'er not, A pack of restless energy flown in from the sun, The parcel of a process apocalypse that is never done.
Stoke our animal-engines with the sex of survival. Discarded divinities haunt the halls of our arrival, Into this kitchen of soft-chefs where the thought is what it thinks, All the patrons are drinking their wounds and nursing their drinks, Lamenting that every reason happens for a thing, The moment; the mere junk of what the next may bring, So we make a bid to buy the ruins of a will that once was free, Because we'er sold on some idea of what just has to be.
This thought pollution finds its way to the body politic, The systematic-symptom of a system that is sick, And the days are long on labour and the nights are short on sleep, The moments are a plea-bargain you cannot catch or keep, Endless absurdities that compliment the reach of the absurd, 更多更詳盡歌詞 在 ※ Mojim.com 魔鏡歌詞網 Junkyard mythologies that flay the flesh off of the word, Alive by mere survival we go wandering electric-wastelands, Thinking we can turn these busy ruins into gracelands.
Lost because understanding is a destination with bad directions, So we rent this dogmatic-dystopia with our emotional insurrections, The ambit of pharmaceutical contentment will serve causality and cause, Each his own stone to roll and guiltier than the laws, And our daily-distortions leave their shadows like landscaped litter, We'd rather die by the poison because the cure is so bitter, A thousand ways to self-destruct or build your better days, Nowhere is a straight star-tracker when you've lost all other ways.
Vested in the token bitch of change we run this routine tragedy, The bliss turns into a blister and we take the rap for a rhapsody, Between the ready and the ruin the blood-works and river-runs, The masses are massacred by the choice of the chosen ones.
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