lily

I don't know the equations running through her head or what the solutions are in the end. Mary whispers poems about recreation through the Telephone wires thousands of miles away in blistering heat, She says she can hear me starving. But its not me that i see. Its all of you. Whoring yourself on brain numbing tv shows , whoring yourself with a corporate black eye, all of you little victims fist fucked by american culture so hard. I see this human condition thats so sick and beautiful. sometimes theres no balance. The sick outweighs the beauty and its airbourne but theres always miss mary with her sick perverted optimism to sing me to sleep.
Love, Lily