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• Artiste: 13 And God
• Titre: Superman On Ice
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Somewhere between motivated and cold You on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you. . .basing guess upon guess there. . where . . somewhere between motivated and cold believing your good freinds down to the bile in there beautymarks. . . they Who found you counting back toward yourself so haven't dremt and heavily armed yet another blues thief told in however and oneday. . . And every Monday things begin with indiscriminate street noise more vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels of work in their blood and clock in their wake up early shaving damp breakfast skulls with fresh lady's leg razor so that the oneday the moon might hold a half a million nice size hoods easy and plenty fast restaurants by cum and by egg and laid low into creature then cast out in the one cold of all names, this song about siabowed sperm and the mining of human concern many cells split, many men died in 1998 the year of my strong, fair rap collection There are foot prints embraced for out on the frozen lake face depressed and kept from quite some cold ago, and they look brave, dangerous, man made the sort of mark one can make on the world. You borrwed the camera from why and set it up by th printer and horse head obssed with your pressing record to indulge in the shallows of here and immortal it is god to name things from thin air to have wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your wallet. to have 100cc's liquid luck supplement bug into your blood by needle point and distant star are you loosing yourself in the quiet cell abandoned old okland patns undone, stole eye starting water nailing a sign that speaks frear to a bank at the man made lake you cop you Will you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sun or stay indoors taking the pill to your face. . . Striking that lighting on nothing attempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at home in a smock killing single cell sheep for stright weeks till you give it all up for photoshop and unsing your teeth there in a box with your things stabbed airholes and one wing or white lung, when your well you stay since there is a certain modern earth pain only fit for enduring which one does endure like returning a foster-child twice or going the distance on songs for a compilation. No one's out there scared you'd set your eyes off all night on the ceiling in the dark think of a song or maybe breasts I thought I told you, this is not new. . . Skinned by the speed of my one life you have that desperate fair to your eyes the look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army man almost too attuned to the spoils of loved wishing he'd been born some sort of succulent or larvae but your to soft for all that you like your blood kept in the movies and your head in a jar or a base in a van on tour your guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatbox heart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or two here you are a bag of milk to do tricks and not as a function of pennies. and how you've dreamt nosdam's skull been predatored given a split at the hairline and hinged with a lid and in it placed the single hard marble of art and it is there it is kept