Perineum

The scene has been set
The curtains have been drawn
Here we are:
yet another generation shipwrecked upon the worst of times.
Fucks sake that sounds far too cliche.
It appears like every other nihilistic introduction.
Yes, yes we all know we’re fucked, but we never quite manage to capture the panache of existing alongside this grand and glorious technological era of ours:
The instant streaming
The pornography
The online gaming
The news
The politics
Strap on a VR headset and lose yourself in the stream.

Existence is immediate apathy in a world where reality doesn’t exist. Tomorrow can be yet another great escape, just like yesterday was and today is.

I feel like every other self-aware, middle-class white guy. Its inescapable. Oh it’s a terrible fucking mess.
I’m tired of the insecurities, tired of the self-hate. The abyss has me, the pain just can’t seem to alleviate itself.
At least the writing makes sense of the horror of existence.
You know I don’t even know what the burden is anymore.
Once upon a time it was definable. Of course that time has long since passed, since then its become cracked and twisted. Sprawling out to consume the minutiae of my life.

What day is it?
What time is it?
Who am I anymore?
The only guy who has any idea what’s going on nowadays?
The only guy who can’t take the joke?
The only guy who doesn’t see that there’s canned laughter at every waking moment?

I’m sick to death of the watchful eyes, gnawing away at my fresh corpse.
Just because I’m dead it doesn’t mean you can flay my corpse.

Retrospectively this was meant to be it, The great dream at the eve of university:
loving till it fell apart, fucking till our heart’s content, drinking till our liver’s pickled and drug abuse till the first overdose.
Acting like Robert Baratheon, with no concept of an early death.

I feel like the joys of youth has blown its brains out all over my bed.
I can’t tell if it’s blood or cum stains on the bedding anymore.

When the energy to suck tits on a train has gone, then you know you’re changing for better or for worse.
You take the guess
You either like me or you don’t.
I don’t give a fuck.

Adulthood moans as society gives it a nerve-wracking rimjob.
I’m bored of the present, give me the suicidal future now.
I’ll make short work of it.
My cigarette packet’s nearly finished.

The spectres of the future are goading me to uncross my arms and play the part.
Vulgarity seems to be the only thing that isn’t playing the long con.

Eschewing all metaphors and being frank, my shit is fucked up. The freedom of summer brings the decaying carcass of what once was love’s lullaby to my doorstep, and I can’t quite say I care for the smell.

This year’s surprise:
Political institutions have defrauded the masses once again.
Corbyn’s sold the youth a fruitless hope, an enticing lie.
May’s loaded the gun that’s going to kill us all.
Gove’s snorted all the cocaine, and left none for the next teenager in line. They’re angry about it to say the least.
Brexit appears to have wrote itself in anxiety
and (as expected) failed to erase itself in shame.

For now we’ll navigate the cesspit of day to day life. Let the politics wank itself off. We’re much better for it, or so it’s argued.
Stoned on reality’s doorstep, I’ve had one too many lovers and here I am. A product of every tragic end at the precipice leaning over the edge and throwing up my indescretions.

Maybe this is a part of
my existential crisis. But do any of you care?
Do you read with pleasure, with judgement, with spite, with condemnation?
Is viewing this post as transactional as our relationships: You like my picture, I’ll like yours back.
It does work wonderfully I must admit.
A picture of Leonard Cohen on my story attracts more attention than tragedy.
There’s so many mutual followers between us all, you would think we could be the best of friends.
Our unaddressed camaraderie extends to somewhat similar profile pictures of us in edgy poses,
the posts of people smoking cigarettes,
the comments of thinly veiled implications of drug abuse.
Piercing every part of your body in rebellion. I love it as much as the next.

Dyed hair is as much an icon of our times, as long hair was in the 60s.
White and black
Blue and pink
Box dye or professionally done?

I’m speaking directly to you, but there’s not going to be a response, nothing said to me to change my mind. Just a grim, silent acknowledgment of said addressing.
That of course is terrifying in its own right.
All of this serves to just reinforce that this isn’t reality.
This is the world of fake posts and even faker personalities.

What a fucking tragedy.

Hoping someone cares about this, but realising that it’s fruitless. Makes me nauseous.
The tragically funny thing is I can’t even change it, there’s no making the viewer care, when they don’t know you.
The screen hides a million horrors,
my lexis displays countless anxieties and terrors.
I just want the nightmare to stop.
I’m sure everyone else wants their own nightmare to stop too.
I’m no different to you.
The dissimilarity has become the grandest similarity of all.
The diatribe never suits formal cohesion. I’m just waiting on a Ballardian revolution.

Till then I might just check myself into the hotel and give myself to permission to self-destruct.
Marriage is a sham, your parents hate you, and you hate your parents.
Burn down the institutions we live within.
Ashes are better than bricks.
Fuck the world, I’ll call you when I’ve ran out of liquor.

Do you want to hear a joke?
Scared humans, huddled together for warmth whilst natural selection picks them apart.

One day you’ll die and that’s it, you’re nothing. Your legacy is as big an illusion as your existence.
Every little step you made toward the good life, dissipates upon death.
Null and void.
I can’t deal with that, can you?
I’m as much a fool as the next, spouting nihilism and horror.

Raise a drink the next time you’re trying to fill the void.

Fuck, I’m exhausted.

My dead body floats down the river,
cold and lifeless
battered and bruised
Futility lingers in the air.

Any attempts at recovering the body are futile.

What do I care?
No one gives a fuck. I’m pissing in the wind.
There’s no reprieve coming anytime soon.

It’s all horrendously hopeless.