lirik lagu jak tripper - botch
yo life sucks, gypsy moths out my stomach
my life has 30 percent of life, it lacks arms, strings and a few b-ttons
i commit suicide at 65 percent, f-ck it the kids will love it
i’m disgusted, art at the present is only self contained construction about which there is no more to be said of it
i drew mud sl!ck, drop of blue tremor linked to the ground by a magnetized gaze
at dusk, snow over peaks of a summit
cotton wool-like, in my narcon encrusted blood pumps it takes the page when i cut it
catching inks with pots and buckets
beneath root flower and stone, i group a coven
i lurk in fire damps and coal pits to canoe out the origins of your pungent
vein weeping at the focal point where your guts sit
i diffuse elation and whatever sunlit
what is rugged, this cuprous fertilize metal rusted
i post up a collection of my life’s work in a gallery to make it easy for you to p-ss judgment
my tongue drip, low-tide polluted bay water, salt spraying aerial like seagulls spit
eyes upon fisher, duckbill gullet
my happiness is a mask under it
i generate misery to sulk in, brilliant depression
ascended to music like scott walker sullen, slow and sluggish
i kick suffolks, oil spill tanker boat tugging
diluted water propulsion before punch ins
the crowd nailed me to a cross
i am emotional numbness, nocturnal vampiric dust drift
in a dim lit cafe, this beating it downer, writing to the ludes tank
punch rap’s balloon face
i figure evolution before i lose face
stone carving a new slate, digging is a mutate
and carry my two hemispheres in a suitcase
i told watch the nerves, like a paper knife endive in the noose frame
me and this game as a razor blade in a fruitcake
they’re all poets, writers, diplomats, and dress makers trying to move brakes
i k!ll future art with ease
sh-t i’m on causes black suited narcs to creep
i drop cellular metals and of cryptograms hysterical paranoia starts to seep
rush surges of melting face images under the bark of trees
i litter state parks with crystal meth shard debris
i’m sulked in depression with a pad, the artist weeps
dead tired but off the charts asleep
spider crawl filthy cerebral saliva, wash brain’s harness leash
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