Seasons In Hell

Shaven cats and junky perfume. Husk of yesterday. Remembered by none in a field of glorious failure. Safety in butterflies. Cocooned in devil mouth. Credentials of cocks. Peeled apples in seasoned dismay. Lacklustre and lukewarm. Academy for perverts. Twisted like a handful of hair. Pull it back and watch her groan. The witness to my capitulation. The last things that were known about me. The way I walked through fields of corn with no sense of what tomorrow held. Teeth as nails. Shells of distant pricks. Always a game of trying to pretend you’re something you’re not. Suicide journalist. Crushed by the weight of expectation. Water on the lung. Shovelling ashes as the freeway flows on by. Tear up the neon streets. Rip them to pieces. Animals in the sand. Rocks in their throats. Their fingers itching with anticipation. Biscuits gone mouldy. No time for reply. Black dogs barking. Anxiety gone wrong. Not dizziness of freedom but terror of life. No fear just the delight of another. So many colours. So many lights. They keep us warm and they hold us tight. Cathedral Hill. Immersion in dispersion. In ’98, the world turned just fine. It was cold and grey, like the faces of our fathers. No hellos and no goodbyes. It snows and the land slides into oblivion. Hands reaching for our saviour. Souls left alone like centuries of pained silence. These seasons of hell. These bound journeys of fear that never find their shore. Why so cold hearted? Why so driven for the dollar when the dollar is not even there? Make believe rules. Pretend existence when existence is all too real. The great unbecoming. The great design of endless stars in the making. The space between us. The distance between angels and demons. We fuck and destroy. We forget everything the second our lips taste the truth. Roadkill bystanders. King of jerks. You’ll get no sympathy. Not one ounce of empathy. And they all move head down with chains around their invisible hands. The ghosts of nameless winter evenings. The ones that haunt all that you ever used to be. Smoke that dances around us as we bow down to perfection. Alcohol that pours, that bubbles in rivers of lust, vice and sin. Those places are still out there. They’re waiting for us to find our way back. Mercy with the morning dew. There and back again as the lines blur out of view. So many avenues in my mind. So many rifts in the ebb and flow. Taking a step back, the rain soaks my clothes. It clings and sings of feelings with no real meaning. Yet the essence is real, and above all, that’s what counts.

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