What? The psoas - part of the back, I guess - is the tenderloin. You’d want to make filet mignon of that.
And dude, sure, eating the brains of other people might give you kuru every so often, and cooking wouldn’t help that as it’s a prion disease, but brain is still freaking delicious. Like the softest tofu, or really creamy scrambled eggs. If you’re going to go through the trouble of fully butchering a free-range organic person, you should really eat the brains.
I try to change, I try to hold it back and reflect to pick better words and find better times where the brain is more supple, but it really doesn’t work like that for me.. y’all just might have to accept it and see past to the intent.
apparently i lost the kissing contest,
and now we’ll dine with indifference.
cant talk over the angry chords,
i’m plucking these broken strings,
that only i can hear.
[my bloody fingers on broken strings/only i can hear]
when i said i could make miracles,
i had overlooked a tiny little detail,
that i’d need them all at once.
and this torment comes at night,
when the stars refuse to take us.
beer after beer, hour after hour
nothing helps not even this sour
peanut butter and poppy sandwich.
melancholy guitars wail post-everything,
probably only sad about a patchy mustache
[but their depth of sadness is a patchy mustache]
how does one build such an elaborate dream
we’d knit and weave, saw not a single seam
and when I held the part i tried to redeem
it was explained away or sent downstream.
fuck rhyming, it’s not cool like it seems.