Fight 2 Type

this is another all nighter,
grit your teeth tighter.
raise the hackles,
feed the ghosts,
do all of that which you like most.
no recap,
no night cap.
just an aussie hat and a sleeping cat.
this is fucked-up,
fuck-ed up.
spare parts for touring cars,
on velvet sheets,
for sleepwalking creeps,
listening to dirty beats,
bleeping and banging over vacant streets.
drop the eyelids on simmering saucepans,
cos she wishes she was a punk rocker,
with flowers in her hair.
tweedle dee,
tweedle dum,
twiddle thumbs linguistically,
see if I care.
it's six thrity three expressionism,
waking up from wakefulrest.
silly situations.
pleasant locations.
snappy abreviations.
contradictory confrontations.
stick around for the show,
don't go,
don't go,
no,
no.
you've missed it now.
you've lost the thread,
that wound it's way around into your head.
he's a dog,
your lapdog,
lapping wetly at the stained duvet.
yesterday was the button above play,
skip track forward.
there's no going back.
new task,
paid job,
rake stones and clean them.
polish gravel with a shoeshine brush.
no fear,
boredom repulsion in the form of tunes,
freshly caught in a net.
young morrison and yorke master,
gnarlsy baby and the mother of wolf.
more to come,
tick,
tick,
kill a biter.
look in his eyes,
this one's a fighter.
let him go,
it's ok,
let him go.
it's morning.