For four scores four dead girls a speak we feed a word dorm hats work so well on us oh dear artist, things worked so well.

of Kurt, my work is abandoned of a first discovery a blond fist a blond wife to be a dear artist what is next?

dark a main entrance dark the school and wishful dream I found you somewhere high above me i reached up and took a fistfull my dear artist you're all mine.

For you, a sacrifice embodiment we'll arrange the world blurry we'll take it all up the nostrils take anything to see the world as you do, my artist is all out but scary

artist, artist the time has come up to here the lockers all open up and new boys and girls put in clothings and books and stained tissue paper. Their life.

It is a finger we lift diagonally into. It is a cloud or an old rotting tree the last sniff is the hardest to bear. we do see lines and our heads ARE heavy but that is world, artist.

of genious their ink is spilling of homicide his knuckles hurt hurt, that is, in T,T, and T of last and past and hurt the hole is already made How can there be a hole in you, artist?

And, there's a new decade with it's new obsceneties and injustices and all to forget, all to star us up in dust. nothing is hurt for an artist.

And there's a new life and also, a new life it all recovers, the tree from the chainsaw flesh builds up after the bullet, not right after, but, oh, artist, all is art, all is suicide

we see now, all is art when heads are tumbling into a spiral psychadelicy in blacks and whites, is it possible? all is art, oh artist, all is art. Artist.