Next to a fire with your heart dribbling onto the carpet. It bores me, I wish I were somewhere else. A kitchen where wine once flowed and cigarette smoke danced before my eyes. Green eyes, drawings for lovers, and a fleeting touch that became a kiss. Not any more though, for now it’s boredom, the tedious games, the god-awful pursuits and endeavours that make me wish I were a tree. Along old railway tracks, and through fields of yellow teeth searching for the cunts that litter the dance floor. They dress themselves up and pamper rotten flesh, but it’s so easy to see through it, just like the gelled hair and muscles that flex their impotence in their sexual attempts to impress. If the bombs dropped, then I would breathe in god. If the things in my head became real, then I would find some peace at last. But they wont, for it’s impossible, so let the wine flow, and let the night stretch on forever. They say I hate too much, that I’m negative, boring, directionless, but what am I supposed to be when the world I inhabit is lacking in what I desire most. How can I feel happy in a place where creation is geared towards money and control and not artistic merit? Let the bombs drop I say. Let’s go back to the sea and fuck mermaids, or let’s find the Black Lodge and let Killer Bob creep into our skin, for I know I would, just for the taste of her mouth once again. Unicorns, rivers of wombs, unwritten diaries. Things that meant stuff but now don’t. Bodies opened and spreading themselves wide before a shy devil. Vampires outside, ready to suck and suck and suck, but if the poison’s already in me, then what happens next? A Ted Bundy knitting competition? A Jeffrey Dahmer pantomime gig? If only the insects had my sense of romance. Girls, hotdogs, dreams of nowhere in particular. A brunette slipping into dysmorphia. Her own fault, but let’s not forget Mary Bell. Let’s not forget the magic hour, when things just feel right, when the roll of thunder embraces a lover as he places his hands upon the origin of all he finds real. It’s a celebration of humanity, no matter how dirty it really is, and as she sways like a stalk of corn in the wind, the fascism of my hands is enough to make her beg for more.

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