Lie back and think of England; it’s going down too,
under the weight of visceral addiction, the vice of realism.
Antagonist activists; wolves in sheep’s loathing
in the generation defined by degradation.
Sparks fly between taut tensions;
as modern maladies devour rationality.
Why think when you can react
why take the boot off your neck
when you can bruise the most convenient minority.
Death threats, the new love letter
As silence falls on the din of dim culture
where scapegoats are led to slaughter.
We’re too bankrupt to be cheap
too weak to stand for what we stand for
in the Brexit towns punching down.
Nihilated from naivety, only you
could prove despair isn’t the only truth,
and remedy everything that cheapened me.
Every empty fill of vacuous desire
ebbed away sentimentality
until idealism was an affliction,
a coerced condition.
Stripped of venom as armour
reposed in your words,
romanticism is no longer an abject territory.
You’re the memory
I silently ached to make;
the expectation too unrealistic to hold
until your arms became the sanctuary
I could deconstruct my defences for.
I could sentimentalise,
throw flowers on your memory
agonise the opportunity to part with any gratuity,
wish you could see every success
through meaningless desire to conjure what never was
what never will be.
As you ebbed away to degeneration,
every strip of dignity
was a drop in the temperature of your cold stare
that epitomised our tenuous connection.
Even if truth be told,
would there be anyone to understand
how you created something so arbitrarily
only to derivatively destroy it?
if truth be told, I’ll recount every lie ever sold
in a body so weak it can barely stand itself.
I twist on a knife-edge with perfect composure
with a scar tissue backbone
mind a chamber of torture,
heart beating the rhythm of promised departure
forever delayed, scarcely in sync
you taught me to think in verses of fragility
after you watched me grow into regression
and you thought you knew the epitome of suffering.
nothing could ever be relative to your fatality
your ghost will never haunt me
as much as your living memory
I hope every recollection rots
with my hope of ever feeling safe in my skin.
in death, I see you in life
every minefield you left behind
as post-humous reminders
of your wounded mentality
that bred a burden
and made you the ultimate victim.
I’ll die before I surrender
to what you made me
by weaponizing my vulnerability
and putting me in the firing line.
They will never see the full picture
they’ve already reduced you
to little more than a vessel to pour their slack self-worth into.
They just see just the negative as proof
you’re ready to reel into the predatory pantomime of illusory superiority.
In their minds that will never stretch to encompassed yours,
they’re the catch
they’re the bait we don’t want to take
because we know that catch
is the spring of a mousetrap,
the hook on a line,
the cage waiting to close around us,
the expectation of something more from someone less.
You get what you pay for,
and what you never invited to come creeping in
from behind blue light
that depicts your portrait in grainy resolution
and dumbs you down
til your own knuckles are causing friction in fetid minds.
Everything is relative
but no one is relatable
when cheap *** sells
and romanticism is an affliction.
I want to play jazz chords on a piano of human bones;
in a world where superficial charm
leading to senseless friction
is the only natural progression
and shame is the only ***** word left in the dictionary
so spread your legs for the sycophants,
they’ll adore you until they abhor you.
Relent to the parasites
they’ll gorge on your skin until they’ve had their fill.
Pretend hypersexuality doesn’t run parallel with mental instability;
enable ego-driven addiction
lie with as many people as it takes to forget what you’re always trying to escape.
Swallow ecstasy after you have spat out that jagged little pill;
do what it takes to strip away the meaningless
from the fetishized act you’re always performing.
It’s lonely only finding truth in philosophy,
when only phenomenology can tell us
that we are just compounds of need
falling into traps of manipulation
set by the veiled hunger others
There can’t be two sides to every story
if we are just navigating altered perceptions of reality
warped by insecurity and ego
using endless disingenuous promise
as a means to an end
that we can’t see
so underhand, we take all that we can get
to sate some innate desire that devours us
never letting us see its teeth.