If this cortex is remotely cerebral,
I'll eat the mind from under your hat
These place These place These place
Or just quite where to tread
Though the colour running through these streets
Is a shite to behold I'll tell you
All intermingled is but a happy dust storm,
Waiting to disappear up a willing god's nose
- Then where should the faithful stand?
I suppose it's irrelevant to a grain of sand
A golden ratio of broken radios / twists, ticks and twitches
Into the frequency that tunes us all?
Distortion / Spirit contortion
All spirit full volume Silence sold out to the man, man
To rise above material putrescence?
Race your corpse and aim heart high Ride the worms with me
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