Pipe Smoke - Jam Baxter, Ed Scissor

Come on man

Yeah

Come on.

Shhhh

Trials of a burnt tongue dragged through a slalom of fresh chilli

Skull-fucking the scale model of a dead city

He gets busy in a big bag of rabbits feet

Lucky fuck’s skating through his life on a satin sheet

Acid freak sapping skies dry with his jagged teeth

Bite down on your Marx prize for the fattest leech

Pick a winner, weak stomach splattered on a ragged street

And fuck it, look, I figure

If a sick obese gold nugget hugging worm waddling

Can snatch the future out of the mouth of a serf grovelling

Then I’m allowed to bounce to his house in a hearse vomiting

And reward him his masters in sparkling, and in turd polishing

It’s basic, presenting a new face of snake venom

Pre-stripped the skin and rolled neatly through his strange heaven

The grave beckons, man this shit’s nasty

All I see is sobbing sock-puppets at a kid’s party

Sit calmly, the air’s sweating danger

Welcome to pick your own parachute failure

Free fall face up, see you in the crater

I guess I’ll check the playback later

Ready with the boiling oil buckets for the genius that builds stilts

To wade through the ill-timed tears and the spilt milk

«Kill, Kill, Kill, Kill.»

Yeah that’s what they all say

Especially the stubborn apparitions in my doorway

No warm taste of my world, never gets old

Like the kid flinging heat rocks can never get cold

So I tell 'em «Lets's roll.»

Holes in my torn attire

Sat head-butting a sand sculpture of a wall of fire

Walk the wire, blindfold.

Shouldering a screaming pig

That never stops bleeding in the freezer mist

(What) I wonder why them man are looking so proud

When this town’s becoming like a… ghost town

Walk out the yard, string and tired to the moon

See me swing through the city, through the spiralling fumes

Past high minds binding, designing their tombs

As they’re pulling up a tangle of wires from their wombs

Scissor

Yeah, Yeah, oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo

Scissortongue, my blade runner, half me and half you

Phantasmagorical dark tunes to pass through.

Pass the start that part seas and

part stews

Brains tapped in more ways than Roy Castle’s dance shoes

Part two, the doppelgänger, grammar sicker than a back-alley dentist smashing

out your teeth with a rusty hammer

Smash.

Smash

Mind trapped in this time-capsule time-lapse, side-tracked by the wide cracks

in my synapse

Life’s an uphill struggle in my shoe size.

An eerie Indiana type of tussle when

I chew mics

Two sides to everything, one for the pacifist, two for the mentalist

Two’s right

I see

Sheets of rain on these streets of rage and take lethal strains just to ease

their pain

It’s like leave this place or ferment 'til the sun pops and just steams away

Count down to Demon Days

These are fandangoed flashbacks, lost in this Mad Max rangoose that we made

Stone after stone in this bleak place, build from the burrows into deep space

And we’ll keep on going 'til the beef steaks faker than cyphers

Sitting on a neat place, certain they’ll find us

Make for the skirting, sleep like the pianist;

eight types of vermin.

Which one is evilest?

Grape vines are lurking, ears in the walls and the ceiling’s are talking to all

that’s appalling

Now we can’t figure it out.

Scribble words 'til the brain waves flicker and

drown, 'til they’re no longer shining

Dough must layers on your rye eyelids are writhing.

Night falls greater than

the giant;

Goliath

One slim shot in a million.

Direct hit now we’re killing 'em

All work and no play makes Scissor bored of the copious bullshit that cradles

my thoughts.

And the same deep visions that I cradled before get replaced by

decay as they change and contort