v2 Balloon Flesh Nirvana Express

"Balloon Flesh Nirvana Express" (Intro - spoken, low and drifting like a late-night radio transmission) Yeah... the blueprints are bleeding again. Titanic towers rising fat and wobbly, Hindenburgs punching through the ribs like silver knives. People falling slow, like they're diving into a pool of smoke. Nagasaki blooming behind it all, skin and eyes and nipples in the cloud. Listen close... the train is coming. Verse 1 Skyscraper Titanic, drunk on its own height, Hindenburg bursting from the side like a silver scream, six more zeppelins stabbing every direction, people jumping graceful, pool-party in the sky. King Kong on the iceberg, roaring it down the middle, splitting the ship like legs spread wide, guts spilling out red and wet, Godzilla behind him with the strap-on glowing, flames licking the air where the rubber meets the flesh. Mushroom cloud made of skin, nipples blinking, eyeballs rolling, tongues licking tongues licking tongues. Chorus 1 We're riding the Balloon Flesh Nirvana Express, deflating, inflating, never quite at rest. Fetus freight in transparent cars, laughing at ten Gs, faces stretched like Air Force pilots in heat. Lotion-slick and slippery, Marilyn in agony, balloon head popping, hole in the face, running down the track. Verse 2 She births the Titanic from between her thighs, legs long as infinity, covered in nipples, rubbery arms waving clouds into rain. Head inflates, old man face, then Marilyn stretched to breaking, screaming as the rubber splits. Deflated blob of flesh, sprinting on lungs and tongues, trees chopped down in her path, train riding her back like a carnival ride gone wrong. Suntan lotion body gleaming, discreet but everybody knows, she's in heat, men circling with dildos raised like torches. Chorus 2 We're riding the Balloon Flesh Nirvana Express, deflating, inflating, never quite at rest. Grim Reaper fetus holding the black carriage, zombie Ronald-Marilyn-Beetlejuice face grinning wide. Hindenburg transparent, giant fetus floating inside, bees with men's heads and women's hair buzzing the honey pot. Verse 3 The blob runs, face melted, body deformed, train stands up on chicken legs, then dancer legs, sexy and stretchy, high heels clicking on the rails. She tears the ship in half again, screaming people pour out, more hands sprouting, ripping, guiding planes into cars. Everything nipples, everything eyes, tongues licking the wounds, infinite track stretching to nowhere and everywhere. Chorus 3 We're riding the Balloon Flesh Nirvana Express, deflating, inflating, never quite at rest. Lotion commotions, fetus devotions, Marilyn running, Ronald becoming, Grim Reaper laughing in the smoke. (Middle rant - spoken, rising into a fevered whisper-shout) And don't even get me started on the price of vintage cloud-massaging gloves in this economy— hand-stitched by blind monks on the dark side of the moon, imported through wormholes that charge by the sigh. They're up to four hundred and sixty-nine thousand dollars a pair now, and that's before the tax on existential dread. You can't even touch a cloud anymore without a permit, without some bureaucrat in a rubber fetus suit demanding your soul as collateral. It's criminal. It's obscene. It's the real apocalypse. (Outro - spoken, fading like a distant train whistle) So keep riding... the tracks go on forever. The balloon will pop. The lotion will dry. But the train... the train never stops. Goodnight, Nagasaki. Goodnight, Marilyn. Goodnight, little fetuses. The express is pulling out.