Mars Volta The Bible and the Breathalyzer Letras:
Among the tattered dwelling of the new found home,
in the furthest cramped corner sat the shell of a
goat head strangled in copper wire, scraped of
it's insides, unwashed behind the ears, fueling
the crooked names spoken by leeches. To a thinning
cowlick's fat his crippled limp, dragging along
the hump of the floor. Sobbing from the smacking
mouth of the demagogue wells, making wisecracks,
spilling from the corners with their pink
flinches, second glancing their every move. It ate
pickled nose cartilage that fell from the
ceilings, a porkskin drizzle unnerving the humans,
while it read aloud from it's favorite books, in
glossylalia slang and hierospecks truths,
following a slow and patient wait, a mocking their
hair as it was glued to their upper lip combover.
Under the wall, the ships smeared by faithfully
talking the magnum fanatics and their bottles of
scalp soup. They cooked up a tardis smudge on
their eyes, a lunar antidote that powdered
underneath the oncoming pestilence of their idling
fingers. It wrote them a seance, penetrated their
every dependant desire. It hacked off the central
headpiece to the collective. It wrote them a
message in the marrow of the knife, with the
extension of Baphomet* transfusion. Glued to the
animals, perversions of their former selves,
patiently biting their fingernails looking for a
clue. As soon as it failed to appear, the faithful
fell under the spell of public execution. It had
been an eternity filled with useless ritual, and
all for nothing, promising salvation, but only
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flags came swarming around for a better taste.
What was left were the scraps, dressed in animal
skin, defiled servants holding their breath,
fatherless culprits blaming their kin, waiting for
an answer. They thought a day would come, or a
giraffe might choke in midair squeal, some sort of
indication. Only it was the hands of the followers
that had left their markings in neatly packed
dunes filled with the decapitated remains, found
sealed in sand. It only stained the conscious for
a brief moment, then came disgust. Realizing there
was nothing to it, people began collapsing in
collective states of drought. Palm-size vents
heating in the chest, cluttering the graph, a
bladder full of remains. Nothing became of them
because nothing was the reason, an apathetic
display dripping into vats of obesity. The feud
had been sucking teeth for some time now, but the
only baggage that paraded about was the curtain
epidermis unfolded in an inebriated suit. The fit
came suffocating, feathering the boa-constricted
paleness, frostbitten, and shovel-faced. It came
before them in utter confidence, flares of pink
owls in the nest of albino eyelids blinking out
chemical obscurities to the blind. It bloomed into
a hemmorrhaged contraption that impopulated the
disenchanted, one by one. All the churches were
converted into quarantine facilities, inside them
grew bacterial stubble compacted by larvae,
contracting and teething. A newborn litter
degradively sufficient, running from the horse
collarbone, amongst the murmuring femurs wimpering
in fractures. "Are you the polaroid shot you
thought you were?", it said with a coy smirk.
With the position now vacant, it waltzed right in
and made itself at home. Seduced by the empty
nominations at the altar of broken ballot boxes,
closer to that nothingness that everyone seemed to
embrace. As it pissed all over them, the sigh of
relief steamed off the soaking depressants, an
impending sleep was on it's way.
Letras: The Bible and the Breathalyzer Mars Volta [final]