rapid sample loops distorted
beyond a recognizable degree.
those jabs piercing straight into the edge of
music. differentiated balloons hide
a white smile and those unseen eyes
but they’re always seeing through the walls.
it tastes like sin. (spikes, spikes, spikes)
the hyperactive podium of a white blood cell
and that multi-colored warping bottomless pit.
ears with a frame rate, decibel counting eyes.
off the charts, melon gave it a ten.
“it must be good.” open break.
pop. last in first out. modulated springboards
microsecond breathing space, sweat-dropping
hothead. I make myself different.
music tastes like sin, or so they say. get out.
185 seconds of standing on spikes.
my talent, my limit, my exhaling shrieks,
my experiential experimental
(inspired by spikes – death grips)