The way is a box
The way is a square
Your feet are all bare
In blood to the ankle
And tangled up in the guts
The music is soaring
And the music is grand
You lick the tips of your fingers
Just after you’ve dirtied your hands
The way is closed
The way is a box
That is hard and perfect
Without hinges or locks
The music is a schriek
The music is a groan
As you dance this red waltz all alone
The sky is a suicide
Its wrists are raining down on your face
with lithe beauty and grace
and wet rotting lace
and a terrible corset of bone
you dance this red waltz all alone
your twin was a dirge
for a long somber march
the dirge wept for its throat
as your fingers wrapped round it
and the pig iron furnace in your eyes was lit
as you choked out her life
you looked thin and lithe
and cast a fine shadow like a boning knife
the way is a box
without hinges or locks
Oh my how beautiful you’ve grown
you’ve murdered memories and lovers
and pulled up sodden covers
over their heads
how tightly you embraced your sister
her eyes rolled back
and she died when you kissed her
Vocals: haunted, and subversive. Guitars: splintered shrieks. Drum machine: grim, unrelenting nausea. Visceral noise, with a hook that gets stuck in in your throat. Just try spitting them out. Stranger Killings
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