Regression
Intro

Imagine yourself outside of your own head for a second
And that it's... Not something you regret

(Chorus)

My name is cineplex, I rip sounds from the errant source
Occupation: vigilante in advance, he flares the corpse
Flash forward: Nick invents the time machine and writes the song
Childhood regression for the sport
My name is the source, and the action brews a mimicked stork
Puppeteered by Ritalin medulla, Bells and stingy flasks
Force fed foreman forged for time collapsed on self-reflection
My name is Nick and I'm the cesspit

Poison palms and straws knifed in lens fenced from his dealer
Clap between a sidewalk oozing blood fixed blunt feelers
Twelve men cavalcade and jaundice clipped to keepers
Finders staff the stumpage riders strongest cripped from jeepers
Accomplice held contempt reporting scores, I cradle CRTs
Then stash the vivid vision between senses, sixth to sick em-
When he's looking. Everyone is looking. Nobody is-
Shook when he drops unless the script stole from the kitchen
My porridge milked from honeycombs, the colony's uprooted phloem
Socrates a plate-o monkey wrenched nuts squeezed into meager songs
Culture is a bitch folding tees Caponed from legal poems
Flowered up metallic Rabbitholes ditched from the meter's tone
See, alone I'm volatile, my inner child
Coddled into nightmares when in a spiral down of bile
This siren screamed a dead-meat and greet salon entirely
Stockpiled on a lake of fire, erstwhile I snip the lyre
Chorus:

My name is cineplex, I rip sounds from the errant source
Occupation: vigilante in advance, he flares the corpse
Flash forward: Nick invents the time machine and writes the song
Childhood regression for the sport
My name is the source, and the action brews a mimicked stork
Puppeteered by Ritalin medulla, Bells and stingy flasks
Force fed foreman forged for time collapsed on self-reflection
My name is Nick and I'm the cesspit

Verse 2:

And it's a cold retribution for the slick jousting of shut-the-fuck-ups-
Herded into one tear that drips in bloodshot unsung hubbub
Static pleasantries zipped, zigged, zagged, smoked to
White noise that wriggles in the tourniquet below the snuff snuff
I fathom slasher revocations in abrasive glances
His glass will Harlem Shake n break weight at the native stance
Half-heads never stoned gather their facelifts gouged like empty shells
Shot at starlets wandering a maze of helves with no intel-
For cutthroats. Everything is gusto. Plucked slow to the
Rhythm bit from no one, chewed and swallowed, code the shogun
Then streamline portmanteau gavels hammering the sickle-
Into blood cells with tallies on agita; walled-in fickle
Inchoate development, Zooka off his jaded flick
Last year his pot panned from the smoke mirrors that drained his piss
Don't lie; that fire never burned; paper's to earn
And while the commies never learn, those burning bridges grift the Earth
I'm a writer; regressing golden sentries to the Hadean
My layaways reign gradient alalia, a native hymn
Fading in... Awaiting panacea for the channeling
Of fingerpainted bantam for this rat racing of bishoped queens
Take them to the drama masked Doctor Doom amphetamines
Then watch them lick the carpet's dusty X propulsive set of wings-
A dreadnought better suited for a king of black heart centipedes
Who eat the apple, crackle, then evaporate in shambles
(Hook)

His name is cineplex, he rip sounds from the errant source
Occupation: vigilante in advance, I flare the corpse
Flash forward: I invent the time machine and write the song
Childhood regression for the sport
His name is the source, and the action brews a mimicked stork
Puppeteered by Ritalin medulla, Bells and stingy flasks
Force fed foreman forged for time collapsed on self-reflection
My name is Nick and I'm the cesspit

Verse 3:

Nobody speaks, nobody listens, we just talk a lot
Weather storms like white lightning strikes us at a glib accord
I will be your whore, for a record spun on 42nd
I can be the noir to your FM stance and guarded presence
Communicates without the meaning. Detrimental
Caskets in my safe, so when I open it I'm special-
Like the empty jokes or quirks beyond a status quo in treason
My reason's in the chrome bubbling extra steps for freedom-
When I'm dead already

(Talk for part w/ no drums)

(Hook)
My name is cineplex, I rip sounds from the errant source
Occupation: vigilante in advance, he flares the corpse
Flash forward: Nick invents the time machine and writes the song
Childhood regression for the sport
My name is the source, and the action brews a mimicked stork
Puppeteered by Ritalin medulla, Bells and stingy flasks
Force fed foreman forged for time collapsed on self-reflection
My name is Nick and I'm the cesspit