From cavity to cavity, a mapped out night on some mop-shy tiles.
Like pips sunken into a blood red orange.
Like scraps of toilet tissue torn ragged between lips.
Those tyrannous bacteria, surfing my saliva, swearing at my white blood cells, waving to their nostril-frequenting buddies.
Till I’m some strewn saffron rice in a red, sticky bed, scattered at the wedding of two Shane Macgowan’s.
Or this kid Carlos, who spat through the gaps in his chunky ol’ canines.
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
Think of that imminent sink.
Of that sweet squeeze of fluoride, the oil to the chain of my sweet talkin’ gears.
The panoramic rush of titillated pipes.
Sebastian Buerkner makes my head hurt.
“This Perfect Surface” is pop your dad can hate. It wheezes and rollocks and punches like a Matrix fight scene. It hammers out a fine copper plate from which to serve a spring-time album. It laughs at my puny metaphors and contorts them into its caterwauling, entropic sphincter.
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