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The Skeletons
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Death Parade
Sparks are spitting from the telephone wires
While the Insectocutor snuffs out flies
Good, cheap, American-made
In the distance, factories hum their death parade
The blood on the wall must stay wet
Or the other side will push straight through
My hands scrape across your empty features
Shivering a sickly fever, dreaming of our doom
The blood on the wall must stay wet through this fever dream
The apartment roof is open
It's always raining skulls
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A pile of faceless corpses in the centre of the floor
Caressing my straight razor
I'm drawing blood again
As I sit and contemplate how deathly bored I am
Fiends write madness on the shutters; lit only by flames
She dances splashing blood on the stars; reflected in window panes
Twitching uncontrollably – numbed by a neon Messiah
Dreams of children eaten by insects – Injecting liquid fire
Never enough blood smeared upon the wall
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