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Even the musical prostitutes who recorded this horror hated it.
Tokyo turns you into a bank balance with a carcass in tow. The size of this single number dictates where the carcass may live, what it drives, how it dresses, who it sucks up to, who it may date and marry, whether it cleans itself in a gutter or a Jacuzzi.
As a cord of scarlet sun picks the lock of dawn,
My bladder shrieks at me that I am violating the terms of its contract.
How drop-dead cool can a girl be and not burn a hole in this dimension?
My blush is so hot I smell burning bacon.
One small lie and your credit is blown at the credibility bank.
Tokyo smells of the insides of pockets.
Outside the shrine a blackbird sings in dark purples.
