MTV-theory
All these dimensions go to eleven.
The camel passes through the eye.
Robert Smith sings it’s Just Like
Heaven,
though it’s summer snow behind this
seven.
After many a summer, the snow will
die.
All these dimensions go to eleven,
a mathematics these strings will
leaven,
a superstring strummed like a pair of
thighs.
Robert Smith sings it’s Just Like
Heaven,
& he’s right by a factor of
seven.
Every kiss kiss vibrates with good bye.
All these dimensions go to eleven,
but we’re down here in four, not
eleven,
insane in the membrane of you, of I.
Robert Smith sings it’s Just Like
Heaven,
only a theory, a half-formed lesson,
the truth in drag, the outrageous
lie.
All these dimensions go to eleven,
