candlerenglish

Anxious tortured screaming little heads that are led out and in of various label selling stores. Ghosts and shells of people leading these tiny little infants to their imaginary death. To their imaginary doom and imminent castration. Cyborgs prance around me with chords twisting in and out of vital black and red organs. Chords and rubber copper church in their minds. With money signs in their eyes. Or targets for pupils . Waiting to strike on the next sorry piece of shit they get to fuck in the ass. Cheap smell of heavy breathing sighs as they search of that one answer that will get them satisfaction. Get them laid for the one monumen

The thing in the woods. He watches us play. He'll be there tomorrow. As he was today. And the things that we do. Are the things he will learn. Through his envious eyes. He watches us burn.

Black turn to gold. Gold turn to grey Yesterday was the day I fled Stole some bread. The coin from the tray The old man in bed. When does life regret death It lets it in with a welcoming hand. But when do these roles switch? My children they don't. And if shall go in the evening. Put on your coat.             -Your friend in the night.                            Love, The Reaper with the Scythe.