Everyone's writing of innocent love,
Hushed whispers and hearts oh so pure;
Their darlings are all made of exquisite gold
Of heavenly bliss and allure.
Wherever I look there's another love poem
Writing pain that is sacred and sweet;
But my "innocent love" spiralled down to the gutters
And my "heart" has been long turned to sleet.
...
and we've lost all direction, we're dumb, cruel and vile;
and we laugh our souls out with bile.
if I drag you by hair just another ten miles
to our den, to our safehouse,
to keep us both sane,
will you spare me one last sickly smile?
– or you'll throw me against window pane?
(and through)
Oh, I'll never get tired of this game!
( ** u )