Christiansen

My Blacklist: If people don't dance they die
Cathartic hand claps
Dependent on words without sounds
In the bitter end goodbye
Fire paint at the canvas with pistols is our focus, our pride
Give the soldiers the drugs and the children hand grenades
The Smart kid, the art kid, let's hope he learns to smile
Alarming we're awake and boiling in horror
Petrified pilots climb into their metal wombs
Black revolver, valiums
Rather fly than see the derailing trains coast by carrying parts for rocket ships
The avant-garde astronomists sell the maps to star dusts and day dreams