It carries us through the night. The idea that there’s more than meets the eye. Life flashes on dead corneas. Random encounters on the freeway. People humour when conversation runs dry. Permanent separation. Idols fallen like leaves on a stream. The slicing and dicing of willpower. A sewing machine salesman stitches himself back together again. I’m grotesque. A mess of nerves and anxiety. Collapsing always, a waste of talent drifting among stationary vehicles on a cold January night. The moon is dead. Dead just like the rest. Safety in a writing desk. Lost at sea. Drowned beneath century old icebergs. Mothers tongue ready for the haunt. Seven circles of hell around erect nipples. Grey buildings between plump thighs. Ready for the calling. Ready for the hushing of inquisitive minds. Chambers of sickness either side of where we sleep. Worlds come and go as we figure out where we went wrong. War doesn’t rage, it just creeps with every passing day. Remember oranges in the sky. Reminisce the times when the air you breathed wasn’t as forced as it is now. My skin cracks like a pavement. My mothers back breaks like a twig underfoot. Green lawns bring symptomless lovers. Ovaries for sale. Bones on show for all who’ll bother to notice. Hotel cancer on call. Teen galore as the numbers disappear like faces in a crowd. Father knows nothing. Demons dance in nostalgia. Fucking undermines everything. I am as you are. You are as I will be. London fading. They say you can’t die in your dreams. I hope they’re wrong. Rainbows and tongues around cocks. Buried in misery. Freedom through recovery. My ribcage is a prison. My teeth witnesses to a thousand obscenities. Don’t bury me. Not just yet.
Like a donkey down a well. Japanese beheadings and the principle of tainted flesh. Exit and entry points. Mechanical animals breeding atoms for wild hearts. Cysts of teenage mistrust. Flux capacitors. Death coils of shaven metal. Clutching your journal like a bible. Landscape of neon. Streets painted with mascara and blood stained glass. Those words you shout are but thousand year old fairy tales. These atrocities dished out so easily are done not out of belief but through the need to kill for kicks. No one in the sky above to praise you. No one to watch in awe these pitiful acts of abject devotion. Knives instead of candy. Bullets in place of valentines. Mouths of hell in the desert. Vanish in seconds. Grow into stones and outlast them all. Billions of years come and go like they were nothing at all. I strip naked and observe sunken ribs. Navel to nose there’s nothing to me but dust and daydreams. Nations falter as the stubble on my chin grows. Thousands burn in an African village whilst the seed in my balls readies itself for action. Lukewarm sorrow. Pretend friends and abyssal plains. Bellies full of indifference. Alcohol and cigarettes as the flies move from corpse to corpse. Carrion so profound. Paintings sold in galleries cherished only by those with eyes devoid of feeling. Imitations of what the poor call living. Gamble to ease boredom. Distress others rather than plant flowers. Pluck feathers and traumatise the weak. Draw an animal rather than save the real thing. Torture your newborn because mirrors are too cruel. Kings of isolation behind every door. Ignore numbers for they are all false. Sanitise madness. Make sterile anything that can’t be understood. Row after row of empty chairs. From the Titanic to office lots in the Twin Towers. The chains of destiny can be broken. They’re written in sand, not in the hearts of stars. Do it if you want. Or just carry on chewing your tale for all to see.