I had someone ask me once
A stranger befuddled
Why are all your writings
*** grime or death
I replied quite honestly,
For a strangers questioning,
'Because those are the most honest things in the universe
Because I don't believe in unimagination
Id rather read of feeding on entrails beautifully written
Than the wet smell of new love
We'd rather see gods creatures splayed red and pink on the sides of highways
Than to live without cars and roads
I'm not sure if that's relevant or poetic but who really cares anyway
I'm certain that fire raining from the sky incites more passion than a newly born anything
The most fun I've ever had I'm sure I was unclothed
And I don't know about you, consumer, but sweaty ****** vicious *** is more pure than the most heartfelt love I've ever felt
If that means I'm damaged - I don't think I mind it
If that makes you pity me - don't
These are just the darkened folded alleyways of my curly brain
I can't relate to normalcy but I've heard that's nothing to be ashamed of
Your glass words cut my face and guts sharply but I'm certain I can't feel it
And I am not bothered by your gore - I feel contented by your devils
And I'd like to know who's with me in this all too descriptive sickness'