rat's blog: "can you build god out of glass"

this is for the dead I will be the one to finsh the last glass, and dwell in the deapest workings of this machine above my self and under the radar.This bat like echo location this irratic sound. and i have passed under stained glass eyes only admitting the obvious . still walking along these rails ciggerette burning till fingure tips. untill they find me until the red and blue lights catch up with me . So who will help me too destroy these dreams to watch these citys burn. Lets stay up all night and start a fight just to make things right. thinking the same things can save us fron these crimes hand cuffed and pretending to resist .conformting the dieing in the wake of the dead and who will be washed clean by my blood . thats why they call it on the l.a.m.b but what of the shepard ? needles and vains working the way into the night raceing towards death. the rats can not be revived for only one can find stable ground so back to the sewers and the backs of the lights . this is for the one born dead this is for the souless union this is for the funeral this is for the machine heart. and i will see 3,000 miles again but with no where to run. And on these roof tops in these abandon buildings i will see what was built for us i will see that none of us exsist in the frist place . and it was me who tryed to save it all and it will be me that will destroy the samethings that made love to this place. i find all these dead citys when truely we are all dead we just don't know it yet !!!!!!!!!!!!!

understanding the junky mentality This shallow storm ........a habitual fire, a habitual offender blessing for the crimes that where foretold? could you go back and warn your self or would that be self destruction the essence of this is to make it our own .........lessing the degrees of sepration or maybe these words are minipulations of them selfs ...... moveing back and fourth over the same wounds best to forget ...... the hands on this clock are sticky driping with a memory stuck in minutes that became day as fingure tips move over paper perstiant and egotistcal what leaves us all seacrhing for our own ghosts.........i learned the trade from those before me but pretended that it was some grand invention this whisky is my water like a comunion to christ hanging peace on the wall ..... hands that opened like buterfly wings.....came home with a party in your head and cryed holly wood tears backing up all your expection even heavan is tired of angels you know ......some would say we where never hear at all ..........when you can see your breath in the summer time you'll no for sure hang your wild years on nail next to your hat and you cane.........stoped in at the liqour store and set across the street luaghing its really hard to understand it neither father nor mother know the workings of truth nor demon or savior ..................... maybe we all where born in the same labatory understanding the junky menatlity cos we are all on the road again

menstration surely you have finshed with your menstration by now..... but still driping your fluids into the mouths of the dead...........and the devastion that it brings is uplifting when your lies are so cleaver that no one would belive the truth . devour your fanstys that the poplous is soo devine ....and why do you where the contrdictions on your chest in my eyes vanity crys.. and the streets sleep alone tonite ....... we all fight the human condition with double edged swords and factory that produce our own damnation......... up and over and down again throught jungles and airports shearching for solitude ......but just put your hands bahind your head the gun as already in the back of your brain relax it will be all over soon......................................BANG!.........that tought was bearly conseved women and children pulsate on the ground opening new door ways

AND THE FUNERAL PROCESION OF A THOUSAND CRIMANALS STEAL THE NIGHT . A GRAND RAPTURE AT FINGER TIPS END . THE BOTTLE POINTED AT ME LIKE A LOADED GUN . IT IS HARDLY EBOUGH TO KNOW YOU SOBER. OVER TAKEN THE NIGHT HALLOSENATEING IN DREAMS WITH DRAWING THE TIMES OF RESONING. CONSTANLY FAILING US WOTH THE LACK OF WORDS THAT HAS DESTORYED A THOUASND IN A DAY A NIGHT A WEEK. BEHIND CHAIN LINK FENCES . ARE YOU COMEING WITH ME ? AND WHEN I LEAVE IT WILL HARDLY BE ENOUGH I'LL TURN IT INTO A PHONE CALL AND A PHOTAGRAPH I'LL TELL YOUR SELF HOW TO ESCAPE THE THINGS A CAN SHOW YOU A PROCESSION OF 1000 CRIMINALS SO TO TAKE ME AWAY

if you can't make up your mind on how infectious you should be. Then my advice would be to cry your self asleep and when your wraped in dreams tie your noose and put on your catholic shoes and keep on breathing in your past and rise another glass. and if you where to stumble through the grave yard tonite i'd show you how to rise the dead.Working your fingures over dry bones. i learned the trade from those who came before me and passed like a ghost of water and whisky . this is why the back wards souls travel . we'll build them up and hide our actions in the dirt. how can we forget everything you sell we can build god out of glass beacuse the sun was born with a silver spoon in its burning mass and concived chirst in your vains. this is for my procession of travelers .