The precipe of the good and the bad has been disfigured beyond recognition.
There’s a beaten child in the corner crying for some humanity.
It’s arguable cancer will take them before suicide.
Their Dad left for a pack of smokes, rumour is he isn’t coming back.

There’s little to care about when these might just be the final days. The abysmal centrifuge slowing down; the motherlode ready to go at a moment’s notice.
Lets boogie on down to the cemetery for kippers and cocaine.

What we grew up to believe is long since dead.
The childish remnants of us are toxicity incarnate.
It’s just pathetic now. They argued it’d get better, yet here we are with horrifying nightmares for lives.
I’m waiting to be pronounced dead. I’m not the only one.

They put a safety net around the balcony to stop the newlyweds jumping to their death.
The Streets below need blood and death to function
Somebody fucking feed it.
Don’t question it, because the truth is death’ll strike before it gives you a chance to breathe.

There was a massacre at the wedding.
He pulled the trigger so many times. The bullets tore through flesh. Everyone was dead. The bride had done a runner beforehand. So at least someone lives to tell a version of the tale.
There were dead bodies up and down the aisle. The wedding cake soaked in blood and gristle.
High art deemed it an important cultural piece.

Meanwhile the sun beats down on the seaside town. The bereaved mourn blissfully in silence, shuffling through supermarkets and charity shops.

I’m taking a drag on my cigarette and waffling on to Emily about the importance of lighting in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction.
There’s a tinge of sorrow in my voice, alcohol may or may not be in my veins. All I know is paracetamol gave me one hell of a headache.

You’re just as capable of taking a life as the next person. It’s just your suicide mission is getting a successful career, whilst there’s is finding true love.
You’re both failing.

There’s a girl with a heart of gold, life played her unspeakable cards, the rain batters down, and all the cliches in the world up and left her. She’s yearning for love but no one’s selling, yet everyone’s buying. It’s a bleak world but what can she do? Life writes itself. Our involvement is as involuntary as coming into existence. You can hope she makes it, but I’ll be damned before I believe in happy endings.

Abstract meaning plants a kiss on Mother Nature’s cheek.
The class divide jackknifes into the pool of gentrification.
The illusive figures of truth and politics stand upright as the drummer hits his snare in furore.
Roaring applause might be the only thing better than your girlfriend with cum in her mouth.

The thieves took the diner by force. A bystander watched them gouge a man’s eye out because of their beliefs.

My heart; a heart rotted to its rancid core. I’m holding love’s dismembered arms.

Feed me selfishness
Feed me pessmism
Feed me alleviation

They said it’ll get better. It was a funeral then, now its a wedding.
The girl lingering around the cemetery gates left a long time ago.
I wonder what she’s up to.
One can hope she’s still a free spirit, roaming backwoods and smoking spliff’s.

Wonderment’s a tricky subject when there’s memories by the truckload. Misunderstanding was always the be all and end all. No matter how much you want to take it back, the truth is, the mind doesn’t forget.

I can’t savour the kisses anymore, I’ve roamed the desert of empty, loveless hearts. It’s a cold place.
Scared fleshy mortality:
hoping the Tinder date leads somewhere,
hoping the girl sat across from you thinks about you.
She probably doesn’t.

The evil humans can do escapes due process. The victims are numberless, scarred from the abuse and trauma.
We’re a sick fucking species.

In life
there’s no better
there’s no worse.
Reality’s a bloody pulp
a fractured mirage of self-hate.

I’m coughing up blood left, right and centre.
Staggering through the hallways.
Even an empty husk is afraid of loneliness.

Derivative truths are a pittance for the dead. It’s the living that have nonexistence to fear.