Dust and Sacred Sex

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Drinking beer whilst gazing out the window. Random objects strewn across my bed whilst a cigarette is stubbed out in a makeshift ashtray. Shadows on the wall, they remind me of being a child, of the wonders of imagination. Another side to life that’s always out of reach. People die. People disappear along with impossible dreams. Jobs that occupy time. Jobs that drown us in pointless exercises. Money is king, and we are its whores. My skin itches, red marks inflicted on me by the biggest whore of them all, good ol’ mother nature. Destined to be alone, these stories can’t deny death. They can entertain another life, yet the hand of time will always drag me down. It drags everyone down in the end. Young and old, ugly and ripe. That flesh they parade around. Those juicy bellies and pert tits, they mean nothing. None of this means a thing. Plastic culture. A catastrophe waiting to happen. Feel alive in the crushing metal of a car crash. Insides in the gutter, my mothers guilt is not my own. The rage of my chemistry, it’s just how things are. Excuses are good for some, but for me they never seem to fit. This is how I was made, it’s how I am. Engulfed by the flames of thought, every action creates another reaction. Every passing feeling leading to yet another dark horizon. Howling like a broken guitar, these trembling hands dissolve as morning calls once more. Repeat after me. Dust and hushed secrets across the gallows of your sacred sex.

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