Snuff

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Poetry in suffering. In drinking too much. In self-abuse and the dissolution of pointless bones. The mad should be worshipped, and the sane boiled in their own self-righteousness. Outcasts and dreamers. Eaters of words, and takers of hearts. If you can’t sleep, fuck. If you can’t fuck, sleep. The golden sentence, dancing behind black’d out eyes. Eat steak. Write until it comes. Write until you make a thousand women come all at the same time. Screaming like damned souls. Wild savages, thrashing and biting for a taste of the beast within. Big man with a gun. Lonely walker of deserted streets. The war of being alone. The fight of wanting to do it right. Smoking and thinking of a woman who’ll do it the way it should be done. Flicking cigarettes into empty paint cans. Careless and bored. Wishing for release so you don’t end up like every other useless prick you ever knew. Fall asleep in the bath. Drift into a horror story. Escape into a poem. Say what you mean to say. Pain without reason just won’t do. Reason without pain has no meaning at all. Die a thousand times. Die every night, and be reborn in the fires of wonder. Believe in me, and I might believe in you.

Maniacs make for perfect lovers. Wicked and cruel, and relentless between the sheets. Hateful and atomic. Distant and cold, like animals beaten into submission. Old rail roads. Wheelchairs at the bottom of a cliff. Heads injected with concrete. Dirty old hands, eager for something sweet. A little flesh to obliterate cheapened souls. Everywhere you look, plastic bodies. Riddled with worms and absence. Get up, drink and write. Scared and scarred by whatever doesn’t ignite the flames within. Different and changed, like rivers flowing around the sun. Absurdity- painted all over the faces of the ones you used to love. The average woman, pitiful like a tiger chewing its tail. The useless ones, so average and bland. No art and no desire. Only boredom and perfume. I gaze at my reflection and see the bastard I am. I see all these faults, and a thousand reasons not to be here. But I’m a king wishing for a dream. Silence and bodies. Breasts to be sucked upon. Thighs to be spread wide like stalks of corn in the breeze. Voices for the voiceless. Preaching for a state of mind, so hard to ever find. Bathed in kisses. Stained with the hand of loss. Softer and harder with the passing of years. Get fucked up, and piss on everyone who stands against you. You and the world, as different as moonlight is from sunlight. Blood and November fear, whatever whatever whatever.

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