Fuckheads Is the Auto-correction - Of Montreal

Am I a creep 'cause I don’t have a chosen pronoun?

Am I a creep because my mind is the Odeon of the multiverse?

How you bragged your length of legs by insisting to walk to Midtown

Microchips looking miserable in a Greenpoint gallery

I bounced between bars full of ink alone as a pinball yes that alone

Now your long haired friend is looking for his cocaine

And I’m happy my drinks not empty as long as there’s something left in the

glass you don’t look like an alcoholic

She sometimes/always appears to be plural I oversing ambivalence

Ovary venom as a first confession

Now that she shaved her head we’re all one big comb over

He developed a craving for impotent men who peacock themselves invisible and

being very ugly for tips

Gentrification of libido self-titled just like New York City itself

Ragout the streetware of horsemanship I can dance with you

We took too much bitter anonymous performative abuse and now we can’t sleep

She changed her name by one letter leaving nothing to discretion

Fuckheads is the new preferred auto-correction

Every idea is aquatic life no thought is the sea

That’s the only tear I’ve never cried it cried for me

Gray babies ululating outside the afternoon door

Horror vacui conversation I don’t adore mi amor