Thrice the pity I can’t escape Vice city; I might lift my head and see I’m too bright and righteous for it to fit me. Stay with me, alright Kitty? Vice City, it invites gritty spice, tricky oddities, pretty commodities at high velocity mobbing from me. For everyone we rob persnickety quick with a flick of the wrists these cards split. Shifting easily, the gift of a sleazy, tipsy and queasy job is art that riffs after a whiff pleasing me. A shift increases ellipses: seeing sharks quick feeds me and the mob, get it? Slipped that one pun under the gun with ease, ellipses, dun, dun, dun. Come undone for fun with a loose tongue for lucid grooving elucidation moving emotional animation from the notion of escalation in revealing what’s unexpected from feelings repressed and recollected.
To heal I’m stealing and inspecting what’s real and repressed. Scoping close, opening with questions, hoping prose can keep it clothed with discretion. A hymnal of interjection and after introspection, fuck discretion! My prose rips chodes and tips rocks, hopes to rip clothes off, show a state of flowing with grace blowing straight to the top. A jape I can’t stop. Out of my control wrath scrubs, every shout my soul in a bathtub not consoled by a backrub but baiting with terror, made to be the carrier of scarier bare souls of werewolves sharing their despair. Beware they’re all out there.
Bright flares of nightmares tightly ensnare me, waiting to get me mating with Elizabeth of Bathory. No riddle bit that’s a tragedy. The original mistress of abysmal hatchets and maidens made and raised to sacrifice, hack and have as an adapted masticated habit. Massively craggy they were grabbed and dragged, drained into bathtubs. A missive of evil bliss for Elizabeth isn’t past me. Mistress of Bathory is right there in every nightmare, cleverly bright eyes that dare to divide my senses and compare intense quarry, share her hunt and bare me her cunt, unfair fall out when she calls me out so blunt. Run there and it’s an all-out brunt of guilt wilting and jilting back from burly rage, earlier days. Sucks to be so fucked by such a squirrelly fray, karma warmly warning me ‘It’s on ya’ see!’ No escaping ancient crimes, played back from time remaining in rhymes.
This wasn’t a colder prattle mission, it’s an older battle vision, some soldier had it with his division. A further disturber is the legal fee for a deserter herded before medieval Queen Bathory’s regal scene. A distressed entrance fee was the recipe for every henchman in her legacy. Greater gleams, this fader always has his means so later in the scene: Ahead of me, the crowd rallies. Instead I’m about the alley. Dead-set, I’m scouting sadly a poor scalli for the next tragedy. Her head and mouth are ensnared, no shout. Thickly bagged and quickly dragged, brought to the sickly brig to be fragged and fridged. It’s just too bad what we all did. The screams echo hourly. This scene is mean but it’s the Queen’s salary. A bad explanation and it’s tragic the magic wasn’t bacchanalian like Aleister Crowley. How was this allowed to fit? What decision made this battle vision all over like a cattle’s mission following the herd? What disturbed soldier fit in with what history had often forgotten what was written in, unpardonned from victory’s margins?
Slack entailed blackmail. Pain doesn’t rain flack, it hails! Clever talent challenged, better to remain out of jail. Trained to tail without folding over, a scout soldier went over plenty of enemy lines and back so he could sack a hoodrat. His checkered track record was a vast direct stack of wrecks of attacking where enemies least expect. He understood what fits to be happening within a kidnapping quicker than Jack the Ripper’s lasting crass flings. Alas, my vast soul charts through asshole arts the deep past and rolls to start. Ill and tired I desire to be still but I will listen to victims sickened, shrill cries undisguised behind my eyes. Wanting to be free, taunting sprees haunting me, ontological breeze mincing my psychology, rinsing diabolically. The best of my head is invested in the restless undead, bonus japes can only escape after their onuses are abated. So I don’t play with prayers, I just spray it. Unwinding flack crimes in every backrhyme, reminding me vast of the shine, the slack is mine. My best contention is to invest in redemption and right there is where bright flares of nightmares ensnare me.
Harm came their way and so I’m farming karma today and alarming you in warnings everyway. It isn’t a convenient genius to be gritty when what I mean is spent in every scene, sent in dreams and set to ream. I might luck out abit you see, but Christfuck it’s shitty the bright lust so pretty. Distilling my instinct so I’m willing to be distinct and ill. Clever still, never had my fill because urgently bad weather is currency for my till. I think being reborn to reform and free the scorn lately is a shady play for the creator who made me. Wonder if he was under haze or just rushed and so I got stuck? Maybe. It’s all just crazy but uplifts me in terse bursts from being a baby more cursed and weaned on the horrorverse’s pierced titties. Nutrition in visions slips in every fireburst. It’s the price I have to lift by degrees. So it’s thrice the pity I can’t escape Vice City. I might lift my head and see I’m too bright and righteous for it to fit me.
Elizabeth of Bathory, did her bet slip past me?