Tuesday, 10 November 2015

The Night Josh Tillman Never Came To Our Apartment

Oh, I just love the kind of woman
Who will always stomp
Like a marching band
She says, like literally
Music is the air she breathes
And the skin-tight dresses that make me want to fucking scream
I wonder if she even knows
Well, it's really not that flattering
To wrap yourself in rolls of fabric
She needs some music
If she wants to breathe inside that shroud

Of the few main things
I hate about her petty, vogue ideas
She's been told too many times
To sustain the conversation with self descriptions
Attempts to forge existence into outer space
Where aliens abduct those women
Who wear
Those skin-tight dresses
Breathe from the asthma pump
A lyric or two to hold your breath
To stay alive

Oh my God, I swear, I would listen to it everyday
Lately, I can't stop the wheels from spinning
As they paste over my dead body
Red uniforms inside
Double-decker busses
When I fumble with the link below
I’m so so so freaking sorry Father John 
For stealing
Your silent night
I feel so unconvincing
I will oblige to your obligation, the choke