Attributes of the Emotionless

I don’t mean to sound so obscure. I just want to see a massacre.

Start the music. Kill the light. We’ll dance with knives tonight.

Rhythmic interpretation of this thirsty anticipation.

Crimson ribbons swirl images of lust and catastrophe.

Come kneel beside the oasis. There’s blood on my tongue. Can you taste it?

We take to the floor with such untouchable grace.

This is the waltz of the sinner. Keep to the beat.

Contempt and complacency cover your face.

Wrapped up in this hellish fever. Keep up with the heat.

Surrounded by fixed stares. Drop your eyes. Drop your eyes.

You attention starved onlookers try to overthrow the scene.

Refuel. Refuel. The crowds of empty vessels tip back another drink.

Tonight we’re full of passion. The music has gotten to our heads.

I think we might start a new trend in fashion.

The exacting of the acting taking place in our beds.

But no one can master the craft like us.

Perfection is unattainable to the mindless drone.

We’re surrounded by mechanical bodies. They’re closing in. They’re closing in.

These machines bleed. Bring on the heat.

The last one standing is a martyr… and my hands are covered in blood.