The Love Of My Tired Heart

All the lovers, desperately wanting to cling. Give in to lust, to the cheaply things that make us feel so good. Only human, only animal. All days spent bound to the chains of nature. Let it reduce, and let it seduce, you, into thinking it’s some kind of beauty. The pleasures of flesh, of being wanted. Make a declaration, and take what you get. Sell yourself. Taste the desire, and someones need to possess. To do what it is that makes us feel godly. Oh, the pale imitations we are. The disdain of being so low, easily read in the lines around our eyes. Our tired hearts, and used up body parts. Too much heartbreak, and not enough salvation. Moments of gentle love, nowhere to be found. And to be found, is what we’ll never be. Always lost and broken. Drifting and suffocating. Self harming, cutting skin and souls. Drowned in the misery we make ourselves. Painted faces, and worn out clothes. Perfume, to snuff out the stench of cheapness that bores for the thousandth time.

Oh, give me a drink someone. Let me unscrew a bottle of wine, and numb my aching heart. Let me banish the horrors of what it is to be such a virus. The sickness of what I am, of what we all are. It’s nauseating, like all those mornings after the night before. Sweet alcohol, let you take away the pain of what I am. All false mirrors, nowhere to be seen. To be small, and to be truthful. Be truthful though, even if it kills you. To stand upon the shores of time, naked with every sin shining in the eyes of god. To let the rain wash over you, and all of your anxieties. Cleanse yourself in truth. The pale body that holds in your guts, ready for soil with every passing second. It’s a fruitless battle. You’ll be gone before you know it, banished to the stratosphere, never to be seen again. And think about all the agony that awaits you before then. Think of the horrors that greet your eyes every single day. All the murders and genocides. All that rage, breaking apart the ones whose only need is to be happy. Rape and mutilation, on every street corner. Slow suicides, sinking without a trace. To be human, is to be destroyed. We destroy each other, and we destroy ourselves. My face is young, yet my heart is old. Riddled it is with anguish, just wishing to find a way out. So grab me a beer, and let me disappear.

All the turds, singing as if life were so great. Yeah, they surrender without a fight. They just close their eyes and see straight through it. It’s so fucking bliss, when you’re already dead. The living empty, smiling lies and shovelling the ashes of lost innocence. It doesn’t mean a thing to them, it needs not inspecting. The lovers of my tired heart, making me feel sick as I gaze in wonder at the ink across my eyes. My hands are shaking, from the years that are getting behind me. My labido is stuttering, as I doubt just what pleasure is supposed to mean. There’s a distinct lack of substance, too many shades of inertia, creeping into view. Places are empty, and songs are sterile. People are insects, their sex more terrifying than a thousand beheadings. All those lynchings, and all those necklacings! Oh the joys of being alive! Dulling nativity, and aching futility. So give me a beer, and let me watch the sun go down behind the rooftops. That cancerous sun, always killing like everything else. Death death death. It’s what living does best.

There’s no way of winning. We’re all doomed to failure. The future’s a boot in our face, and the past is swimming with ghosts. And the present is hell. We’re burning every second. The lucky ones don’t realize, they just exist. The rest of us feel every flame. Licking our bones and consuming the light we held so dear in our flimsy little hearts and minds. And the banality too! Oh god the banality of life! Repetition and lies. Repeat repeat repeat! Pretend and go on with no willpower whatsoever. You never asked for any of this. You want no part of it, yet feel somehow inclined to carry on. It would be rude not too. Selfish they say. More like jealousy. Those who want no part of this great chaotic mess, should be allowed to exit stage left. Do as you please, if that’s what makes you happy. Do what you want, and let no one else sway what you feel deep within. There are no answers though. This wonder we find ourselves in, has no meaning. Succumbe to whatever. Get drunk, fuck and destroy. Lie, be truthful. Steal and cheat. Be honest, show compassion, kill. Cut the hands off a beggar, mutilate sex organs. Do drugs, crash cars. Cry for dead celebrities, dead babies and poor grades. Blah blah ignore. Sex infections and kidney stones. Everything’s the same. Nothing’s worth doing.

So smoke cigarettes and get fucked, ’cause oblivion is heaven.

2 replies »

  1. “So smoke cigarettes and get fucked, ’cause oblivion is heaven.”
    Oblivion is a bliss. My favourite place to be. Nowhere.
    Amazed. Again. 🙂

    • Thank you 🙂 I think oblivion is what most of us are after. Oblivion through sex and drugs, through drinking and sleeping. It’s sad, scary and sexy all at the same time.

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