now, the night is coming to an end
a place where my brain signals don't send/
wondering if others wander the street so bleak
because the stairway to heaven is going to hurt my feet

the rocks are cold, a house built on the sand
the times grow old, we hope for a house of gold/
hello, my friend, he will come again
hello, my friend, the credits of the end pour down my face


i want to sing like the angels, i want to sing like they do
then hold a white flag up to death, and sing him my truce

Epilogues are undercuts of the overgrowth of your butts, taking to a place you like, with a head between your thighs, you moan a little lullaby - of the femme fetal's demise.
Simple tuts of smoking buds are silhouetted (talking) huts, taking to a place you a hate, with a paper plate holding silver weights, you scream a little alibi - whilst lip-reading laughter lines.
WaIting.FOr.THE!man.
Waiting for the man, with blonde hair and a tan, a posh accent in hand and green from his tongue's clan, flickering as he turns you on and "she turns on you". lady of the night, the venus in furs, making the boys puuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr beneath your cocaine coated boot whispering "lick. it. off!".
seductively swooning with simple swamping tactics of simmering snake tounges, shoved down throats of sweet sinners, only to feel empty.
winning heads whilst losing yours (helmet of cum, helmet of run).
you are a light switch, a red dwarf stuffed into streetlights.
burnout after night.
red wine, not white.

jdotingham Sep 10

I saw sentiments destroyed by coffee cups /....& cigarettes buds, smoking and drinking humans with homosexual dollars /........& politically correct (preaching "we hate haters") glugs.
/....The irony of a peaceful aggressive takeover, indulging in anonymous opinions, within the settlements of cloudlike-toilet-cubicles - in a vandal's wet!dream.
/.^Crouching in the corner shining red-pill-truth in a blaze of pop- cultured filth. /.....The one way to kill a hipster is to drown it in the mainstream... unless they retaliate with positivi-tea (I mean cynical- coff/ee). Fuck me, taken literally, this is the Saint Vulture! of Rape Culture
of a feed,
scroll till you bleed,
cry till you plead,
cut till you flee,
dopamine doses are what you need,
documenting minuche weight loss on your placebo screen,
pananza you fiend.
<3

jdotingham Aug 16

bed/rooms. temple of the person(al).
messy floors in order of a jackson pollock on crack, cd collections of when music was rad, then we look over at our slippers: our we slowly becoming our dad. an empty space on the other side of the bed: the dent disappeared. the new wife is a bottle of gin and a meal of beer. books on self help thrown into the fireplace (along with pictures of jane). stains on the ivory. yellow and faded whites.
knifes should not be kept in the bed/room (they.are.though).
dull lighting. bland shadows. the mirror is smashed in the tip outside, the mirror don't lie, it's a reflection of life and it tells men they are fuckup guys.
introverted emotions. extroverted commotions. misunderstanding. alpha male landing.
july feels like september which feels like december. time does fly and drag at the same time.
a drag from cigarettes with a candle to mask to smell of fag: a closet open, throwing up a clothing trap.
scribbles of paper, poetry. jane is poetry. the angry note of: "all these characters are fictional, any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental... apart from jane... fuck jane" the rest is empty. expressionless as the mirror.
the temple is falling apart.
some cut their ears off for art.
in the bed/room we part with the feeling of wondering what it feels like. to break away from anomie and inner penitentiary lives. a fire? suffocation? alcohol poisoning infection from mould? slitting of wrists before we get old? a cluedo of the bed/room.
                         in bed/rooms we have narrow vision: night-thinkers. curiosity kills.

suicide among men is higher than ever. it is a problem.
jdotingham Aug 13

I once heard the term tower block: described as great blundering gateways to the skys. People crammed in rooms filled with smoke from dope and great drama from these square living quarters. Each the same as the last, numbers and letters ascending upwards like the building itself. Living, breathing concrete. A murmur of excitement from its occupants, groaning about their rat race over a beer. Or two. Or three. The numbers don't matter. The letters of their names don't. To everyone else, they are this homonymous crowd of no-be-s. A reality show no one watches. Gaunt faces. Shaved heads. Fags. Ripped and muddy trackies. Stunted heights. Loud voices. Everything to say, yet nothing at all. Nowhere to fall except when they implode and throw themselves off the tower block. The tags of colour at the tattoos found on the people themselves. Tagged with names. A source of identity in these rooms of complex similarities. Right now the streets are empty. I look up and imagine the stories of their lives. The ones never told. The ones ignored by the higher class, the sophisticated writers, the people who'd look the other way. They exist. In numbers and letters. Ages and names and places. This defines them. I should maybe write this down. Maybe not. Maybe I should set the bottom on fire like a fag and watch it become a towering inferno, maybe then people would take notice of these stories. As the fire climbs and traps people who have nowhere to fall apart from by jumping off the side. Then again, identification would be a mess. Everyone is the same in this building. With different stories, so they tell me. Tower block, just a concrete furnace of numbers and letters and numbers and letters and stories told before and that will come2b. It's not the only one, but only when we burn do |people take notice|

note: character perspective of Lucien Abbot.
jdotingham Aug 9

weary eyed hipsters stumble and wonder if others wander the streets so bleak as post intoxicating liquor grips their throats with their crispy eyed dope and melodramatic tropes ramble through their denail of stereotypescalation.
    Angry.
    Screaming.
    Tortured.
    Privileged.
The world did them a crime, stripped them of rhyme and their sandstone blocks of identity ready to be crumbled by the dynamite expression of a cynical drinker of coffee unaware that in the mirror is the same hipster begging for for money on the streets. The one who wonders if others wander so bleak.
    Drenched in irony.
    Cardboard shelter of whining ivory and printed barcodes.
    ABlissful tyrony of tabloid hoes in leather skirts who smoke fags without a second grace at the phantoms of the poloroid.
     Shredding vocal chords. Angel cum clean. W1pe off that liquid graffiti, the cross says it so, should not touch the dew of the floor or a curse shall b-bestowed.
     Acceptance of culture. Fuck!poe_
etry?hello&bi-my/english/suite/heart. YOU DEVILS CROW! a raven's snow, bleeding from earlobes and vaginal holes.
-
---- Who copulated insatiate and ecstatic with homosexual dollars who sweetened the snatches of sweat dripping down glasses and broadway trashes talkshow masses? Eluding gyzyms of my prismomous orgasms of satirical patterns. /.....Pretentious lanterns roam the skyline of a blistering moon, subverted by the doom and gloom by desperation of lustfull wombs. They scratch at the square jaws and poufed hair of clones. Who pound
                pound
                     pound the street with treetrunk cocks screaming
:"Angel.cum.clean?"
And: "ANGEL.CUM.CLEAN!"
And:
"CUM.CLEAN.ANGEL!".
Pulsating club music reminiscent of a rampant connection between two pupils dilating under the influence of spice, rolling the dice with death and life.
-
------{I've seen America with no clothes on, I've seen the road howl all the same.}
/.As ?drunks! begin to splutter their venomous barks of spikes, smokey rooms and coffee eyes are a part of my disguise. .........it's.innate.in.our generation, there's only need for sex to crave. %But really, have we really got the time? .
.
...weary eyed hipsters stumble and wonder if others wander the streets so bleak as post intoxicating liquor grips their throats with their crispy eyed dope and melodramatic tropes ramble through their denail of stereotypescalation.
    Angry.
    Screaming.
    Tortured.
    Privileged.
White.

jdotingham Aug 7

he sits there. his feet upon the couch, crossing over one another. comfortable. arms behind his head. a gleam in his eye. a bruise on his neck.
       smoke passes in front of his face from the cancer stick that he places on an ash tray to the left of him. the ash tray is a blooming flower stuffed full of the remnants of something that once was.
       he glances over towards my analysis and smiles. the kind of smile where eyes squint and the cheeks crease. he asks for a whiskey. a stiff drink as he calls it.
       he is a romanticised ideal of America.
       he jokes. then he gets offended. the smile drops. he jumps up harshly. he swings his knuckles towards Dean.
as Dean hits the floor the room goes quiet for a second before continuing in its affairs. the gambling. the music. the smoking. the drinking. the lustful eyes and gaunt faces mixed with powdered noses.
he looks at Dean's bloody face and walks away without a word.
the door slams.

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