Arson as an artform. It's why we smoke, and fuck our lungs. It's why we breathe carboned oxygen. We're an installation piece for the world. Everyday is our gallery. Giving head to king size filter tips, on the streets. Exhibitionist's. When the wind blows wrong and the smoke takes our eyes, on with the drama and amonia cries. Camel lights, wrongs and rights. I suppose we'd like to think the former were true- but we're smarter than that, and far less creative. We're by the balls and on the block. It's right about now- when our sins come full circle, and we see the payout. The checks made out to us for the seeds we planted, the crops overflowing from baskets on our kitchen tables, with catalogs of clothing, and furniture, and pornographic calculations on monthly statements. We're not stating much- other than we're all the same. The difference lies in our bank deposits. Those simply regulate our haircuts and footwear.
ericaaa:
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