There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching ******* and reveling in dissociative stoicism Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ******* seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples Using nothing more than ******-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries