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May 2016
From the confides of my room, partitioned by paper great rejects,
I saw and see chests concaved by the clockwork between sunrise and sunset,
Heads gripped by lunacy and wires and the jagged claws of clause,
*****, ******, wide-eyed ruin.

Pluto never completed an orbit whilst classified as a planet.

Blue faces stand with scenic, dusty amps in voids, conjured in the eighties,
Silent, voluntarily strangled by silhouetted spectres, crotch-stuffed with egos and sweat from oral *** from icons of 'liberty',
Non-events called dreams yet to be broken,
Spearheading through slums lined by lynched and culled axe-men--maniacs, hanged by melodic strings,
Snare and bass, leather and lace and skull, ride and crash bomb blast.
Stovepipe hats tipped to makers.
Towns and allotted murals, melting flesh on child bones; faraway interstellar paint brushes don't sweep like they used to. Faces so distant, familiar under the microscope, running because some idiot turned the thermostat up too high. Clean bricks, grey and worthless.
Feather-duster culture, sat on the couch, not working very hard at all. Ticking and ticking and clicking and pulling. Empty pages are bars on prison cell windows that look out across
Fluoride smiles of irate cooling towers, chemical by deed, toxic knuckles pound the sands, and ink is easily replaced.
Prostitution hand, capital glove,
Asphyxia, Olanzapine, Olanzapine,

I am sad, and so are you--somewhere.

Crushed, we stand on shadowed streets--skyscraper lined--bleeding,
Angelic shrapnel, tranquil fallout, extras in a dead generation's movie reel, baby boomed oblivion;
Matadors turned the bull loose,
Ah, the good old days: gravy train insanity, Beef Wellington psychosis, tooth decay.
And God will save us all if we beg hard enough.

Rapture: peep holes in the nose, saccharine and Bombay Sapphire cry babies, head in the **** of
**** ***** statues, reading toilet scripture,
Paranoid schizophrenics are in touch with their lighter side.
The Tube is mistaken for Fallopian tubes, as we long with an inherent desire for something new, before the clock stops and we **** it with beautiful Zolpidem sleep.

And the light gets me drunk.
I share a bedroom with my brother that is separated by a bookshelf. This is radically different from what I normally do, but the topic remains as bleak as ever.
Written by
Mouthpiece  26/M/Liverpool, UK
(26/M/Liverpool, UK)   
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