King mob in a plastic iceberg,
|
smoking water damaged cigarettes,
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observe as he works your wasteland,
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pulling punches that you never met,
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controlled in a listless airstream,
|
jets are breathing in his latex eyes,
|
true to form he is scared to touch them,
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and your wasteland stays vandalized.
|
|
Success in a cut-glass wardrobe,
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all the clothes loose like shredded hair,
|
dream escapes to a closet class-war,
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king mob in a smashed wheel chair,
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nerve gas for the walking wounded,
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suffocating in a sadists' prayer,
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flaming horses on a fading landscape,
|
break the surface but there is no air.
|
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King mob as he vents his anger,
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throws a brick through the city gates,
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backfires on his wordless offspring,
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the population disintegrates,
|
cold stream plus a wash of carbon,
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drives his mind like an engine room,
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cogs turning like a flawed stage whisper,
|
king mob sings a lifeless tune.
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|
Surface
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Stop
|
Pressure
|
Drop
|
King mob.
|
|
Faded wrists and the risks worth taking,
|
cleans his blade with dreams he froze,
|
metal moments fed on foreign textures,
|
breaks his mind with the things he knows,
|
King mob at his withered console,
|
electric arcades run on secret oils,
|
flicks a switch and he's the god of anger,
|
pulls a handle and the wasteland spoils.
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|
-----------------
|
King Mob
|
| The Damage Manual |
