Journal For Lepers

Bald headed Lothario, who fucks in squalid toilets. Those teeth of yellow gravestones. Those dried up gums resembling a dead hookers snatch. The horrors of middle age lust. The irony that’s too ironic to be spoken out loud. Mute applause is all he dreams of. Loves dart, broken and nowhere to be found. Cover fat with frilly dresses. Cover sin with perfume and gin. The stench of processed sex uncovered by solvent abuse. The layers of hell found in your local supermarket. A virus with shoes. Multiple faces with traces of hell so damning and unavoidable it makes you puke. None of them play piano. They all choke on their fat tongues. Chrome shells of fickle beetles. Forgotten lisps revelled by sodomy and wild animals. All those useless opinions. All those sunken cheeks. The absurdity of national anthems. The joke of professions as the world burns more and more with every passing day. Out of control and motionless in a sea of infinite despair. On your doorstep and in your belly. In the hearts of stars and in the way two cars collide on a darkened freeway. Miserable guts for calcium deficiency. Obstacles and angels. Writing to detect anomalies in the brain. Wired all wrong they said. Disgust in triple mirrors. Volumes of unread journals just waiting to eat the light of day. The spice of life confounded to reservoirs. Insects one and all. Shaven-headed and reduced to mere numbers. No souls. No difference. Without war, we come undone. The threat of existence makes us real. It gives us the meaning of life. It shows us what it means to taste reality. Kill your darlings. Screw until you come dust. Bones and sandcastles. Things that I’ve already said. Words that come and go like the rain. Disappear. Float in the washed out sun. Another list of places and faces to regret. Dead swans by the lake. Ducks eaten by wolves on thin ice. Images of whatever. Make love. Betray the fearful ones. Do what you want until cancer eats your riddled skin. Spit it out. Suck it up. Stand alone.

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