you spin pirouettes on my common sense,
i only wanna work a little number on your buckle.
love these days is a game of guesswork.
not like clockwork. not like chess: cool, calm and collected.
it is
- burning love notes into suburban front lawns
- spinning kicks x floor punches
- the dead poets society
- punching princeton boys in the mouth
- jazz cigarettes on lover's floors
- curb stomps
- crushing on whoever calls you out
- shitty poetry and lyrics made from misery
- fuck you's and fuck you right back's
dirty teens with broken fists, wrists and teeth.
we are all 21st century Monet's. street art masterpieces.
swapping scuff marks for a shiner.
and- fuck- we wouldnt have it any other way.
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