Reality stagnates and fractures, the guts of humanity pour onto the cobbles we sway down.
Now here I am staggering down some decrepit streets. Bleeding profusely and trying to make sense of what it means to be loathed in the moment.

You can exchange as many words as you want, but it seems no matter what somebody’s going to take it the wrong way.

The bleak skies are weighing down on me, the nightmares won’t let up. The pain of being human, tears into me, peeling my skin back, wrapping its hands around my neck.
I vomit up the past and cough up the present. It’s all one big congealed mass of fucking horror and suffering.

The monarchs return to their winter hideaway.
They’ve got the abused children in the basement. The only one who could spill the beans on their torturous sex ring just turned up dead. A death of their doing.
They’re bringing back a slaughtered goat from this morning’s hunt
The evening’s getting darker and there’s no one here to stop the impending horrors.
There is only pain and trauma to be caused.
They mounted the decapitated goats head on the wall. They cooked and ate it for nourishment. They wear its entrails as jewellery.

Be wary of the horrors, they’re closer than most people realise.

I’d slash my throat if it’d make everything stop. The reality is, it would.

Maybe all the fucking we did was something for the ages. It’s just nothing ages well when there’s heartbreak killing us both. I was wrong as much as you were. I’m talking for reasons sake, but that’s not going to change the end.
Ending’s exist for something to die.

I can’t change the past, I can’t embrace the future. I can’t save myself. I can’t save my friends. I can’t save you.
The fight’s already been lost. I’m fighting the overwhelming urge to end my life. The reality is, what’s the point no matter what I say no minds are going to change, people are stuck in their indifference. My malignant corpse offers no resolution or consolation. I would like to fucking fall asleep and never wake up again.

I’m haunted by each and every slip of the eye; people moving disconcertingly, the abuse of power, systematic control. The negative pervades through the annals of history and is settling up in the bosom of the centrefold. There’s nothing we can do but cry at the sight.

The world’s afire with contradictions. The shaman raped the girl with learning difficulties. Yet here they are on the tv, telling us all about faux spirituality as a way out of the abyss. We’ll eat up whatever, regardless of the horrors they’re capable of. Yet when we see the aftermath of trauma spelled out to us, we’re crying for humanity.
Cocaine numbs the pain, no one’s giving her the compassion she needs. Repugnant corpses stagger out into the view of the mortally wounded.

There’s no argument that the situation for us was dire as soon as consciousness got involved. We had it all going for us, mortal carcasses roaming a dying world, eating simply out of hunger and killing just to survive. Now here we are massacring one another by the truckload, eating for the fun of it. The truth is the gallows awaits us all.

I’m sat here clutching my drink, looking for the soul of Tuesday, so far I’m seeing nothing but an out of order sticker. A terrible reminder that it’s not going to end any better than it began.

The years have dragged on. They’ve dragged me through the mud, kicking and screaming. There’s scars all over my body, that I’m trying to come to terms with. I’m struggling and it seems like no one sees that but me.

I could cry for hours, lose myself in the warped horrors but I don’t think that’d ease the pain.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m dead, this is my purgatory, some good, mostly bad. I’m tainted with the horrors of what was. Every night the realities of my past gnaw at me, peeling back the skin from bone. The lacerations on my back wince.

Death’s a bottomless pit to throw the soulless in. There’s no escape from the true end. This mid-part, this festering zombie of a life is the real terror.

Waking up everyday, living the same moments out over and over again. Unfurling into the future, as the past drags you back into its hovel.

Suicide looks appealing, meaningful even. As if the reality is that in this fractured moment we’re only one step away from nonexistence.

I want to die and I’m not the only one. Exceptional circumstances aside, this isn’t a pretty world, and us dragging our rotting cracasses don’t make it a better place to be.

2 thoughts on “Abused bodies and dead bloody poets

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s