They lick their lips to the sight of my downfall,
The sinner, the saint,
The meaning's the same,
We can't get away from meaningless things and we spend our days just wasting away

Make love,
******* take drugs,
******* hate love,
For all we know we're gonna die young, so let's get ****** up until we're all numb

The venom is watching your every move and it is licking its lips just waiting to get a taste of your bloodstream,
Headstrong paradox,
Chatterbox chatterbox,
You love to talk **** yet you hate to live it,
I'd hate to see the way your neck pivots when those vulture eyes give your weary veins a place to rest,
Lie with them and die like the rest, get a glimpse of what ever after looks like,
We're all sick here, get used to it

If the devil's in the details then consider me satanic, I make my way into every crack and crease and turn your nights into days,
Angels weep for us,
The demons sweep us up and dump us out into the cold and empty roads and tell us to fend for ourselves,
So we spend more time driving aimlessly with the radio waves set on heaven than we do with our friends and family

When she died she took bits and pieces of us,
They're stuck on spiderwebs and bad intentions and they're not ever coming back,
We're not ever coming back,
But we love this,
We live for this,
We would be nothing without this,
I'd sell my soul if it were worth anything, trust me,
I kept myself away but I'm starting to like the pain

I met God and He shook his head at me,
I met the Devil and He handed me a bouquet of flowers,
Maybe I can grow my own garden of Eden using them and maybe this time we'll keep the apples out of it

Until the day comes when I feel I belong,
I'll keep singing the serpent's song,
I'll keep singing along,
I'll keep the covenant ****** and I'll set my pages on fire,
I'll keep pretending this matters and that I'm not just wasting away,
It's hard not to feel any other way

too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun

as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring

the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate

foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty

transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array

****...
        had an appointment,
a triage appointment from 8 a.m. onward,
that went high flying  with Icarus and Lucifer -
dazed and confused woke up at approx. 9 a.m.,
the life of a kingmaker; but never the king -
                                     energy! energy! energy!
downed a whiskey and eased... dialled the number
to the local surgery,
Dr. So-and-So was told he had a nice
voice... started doing the auto-cue...
nice muzak - classical, Bach
symphony no. don't know -
6th in line...
                      first dial the conversation
sounded like:
hello?
              can you hear me?
are you there?
             hello?
                                i could hear the
business of clerks and office
banter in the background, got hung up.
dialled again...
                   n'eh n'oh n'eh n'oh (more like
knee-no, knee-no, knee-no and
bright blue fluorescent blinking lights)
            waited with more Bach muzak...
  the same woman answered as she did
yesterday...
                       yeah, he called,
sorry, i'm an insomniac, fell asleep at
the last hurdle, missed the call,
can i book another appointment?
                 past the slight slur and
disorientation (**** me, mornings are
rough, not as rough as i remember them,
but rough enough these days):
and ever you hear the glorification of
work and never mention the Chinese thieves:
beckoning the dynamic toward Auschwitz.
   so i was playing Adele for a while...
- hello?
- hello?
                      - yes, hello...
- hello?
                    - me Tarzan, me book appointment...
- hello?
                          **** on me,
never do whiskey in the morning,
have some barley and milk...
               yes, me, book, appointment,
England pays me £120 a week for poems
but doesn't know it...
     i pretend to be sick but i'm competing
with Stephen Hawking for the disability...
turns out my brain isn't made of concrete
but of a variety of sponges that soaked up
salmon sweat...
                            so i get booked...
apparently nurse Lizzy (Elizabeth?
yes, Liz, she want's to check my blood pressure
and my cholesterol levels...
                                                   )
dandy, and Andy too (cockney hack for
lazed handy and the oops joke) -
                     **** on me, it's mandible,
jaw or play-dough,
            softer... softer... softly...
smooth operator... smooth operator...
             and she says bye like 20 times before
i hang up...
                             it all seems like lovers
talking by the end of it...
                               so after 2 p.m.?
   thank you...
                                the way women say
bye bye bye...
                                into that famous hush...
            i end up petting the cat
and watching the godforsaken drizzle of
                             jesting rain that feels like
a complete remark of wetting a square metre...
                  then it's onto an article
about Paxman's dad...
                                       i wasn't perfect, once
upon a Grimm's tale...
                                       i used to binge
once a week, never smoked,
                                      studied...
            all that hushed bye bye bye
over the phone and a Yob's redemption aren't
on the horizon... don't sacrifice yourself for
things inherent if you can't redeem...
                                  i'm just like the rest of them:
       broken,
                       broken,
                                        and left to scramble
testicles for the bitterest of jokes:
                             i don't pity the kids with
cancer...
                  they're too brave to be pitied,
they have no competence of life,
                                        and they're the lucky ones.
i pity the nervous wrecks that surround them,
staging excess ethical conduct of Hippocrates
            happy little ******* engaged with
so much affection... never human cruelty and
the human definition of thought-in-transit: boredom...
        happy little *******...
                                         angelic choir ensemble -
    and with a snap of the fingers: without a moan
or a groan... gone...
                                        gone gone gone...
a **** evaporating into roses and flamboyant
chequers of shameful cheeks
                              in Bermuda:
                         pirouettes in high-heels.
still...
          2 p.m. and another appointment...
fun playing that Adele game over the phone with
               a sexed up voice of longing.

Don't print on the body
a pattern, grayesh red.
Damask rose?
The cilia will propel you
into the tunnel.

Clowns have assembled
on the street, to write
the history of fall.
Acts of kindness are being
translated into profanities.

You are hurt by the
petals, thrown at you.
Kingmaker, why you have become
a joker?

Red lilies?
Do you like the buttercups?
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet.
I am not sure, why you were walking
on nails.