Basnicky.sk

Running out of time
'til my childhood
bids me farewell
and goes on the (acid) trip
to hell.

Gods drink wine, but spit rain
And when you're up there
it's still the same
as down here
or below
or even deeper.

Decapitated heads fall from the clouds
disposed bodies in castles built on sand.
And with a gun in your hand.
You wanna hear the "goodbye".
So you can kill them so-called fucking yesterdays...
... suicide's never been better.

What you call suicide
I call determinisim.
And maybe.
Hypothetically speaking.
The road to heaven might be paved with bad intentions.


(takmer automaticke pisanie, venovane beatnikom)