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| My life is not religion, salvation, or his bastard son.
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On the real side, I'mma take everything I need, the drugs, the sex, the power, the American dream
I'm a rude, rude boy raised by TV, I laugh at violence, pain and death don't mean shit to me.
I smoke weed, I drink wine, take your daughter to my tour bus and fuck her from behind.
It's got to be like that, call me a looser, yo I can deal with that. You think you all that, till I lay you on your back, with your legs spread, Ha - Boom! How you like that?
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| What a beautiful thing, to be trusted, to hold her life in your hands
and not only does she believe that you would never bring her harm, but
she's acheing for the gentle touch that only you can give to make her
feel like everything will be allright. The entrity of my being shakes
at the loss of something I've never had, my heart is bursting, my
stomach is churning, and my mind is on fire with lonliness, which is
all I've ever known.
I've finally found myself, an enptiness covered
in dirt and twigs, the smell of fetid flesh as my hearts molested by
zombies brought to life through the thunderstorm inside my head,
pouring acid rain over my thoughts, melting the faces that would convey
love, by now only show the confusion and the vacuum of the abyss that I
see when I look in the mirror.
I'm dying inside, alone with the dead
within walls of manicy, be it depression, obsession, fear...all these
things that build up are just wrecking balls to tear me down, and
slowly the integrity of my structure has given in more and more to the
colausus inside tearing down support beams. Even when I could be
understood, all would be revield in time and then misunderstood,
leaving me with open sores who's pussie tears drain into the sea of
self loathing in which I bathe.
on a lighter note.
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| Some children just don't know how, so you teach them, then they find
you resting on the floor and slowly slide the knife into your ear
canal. You know exactly the pointed extract, waiting for the line,
white hot, blood red, tripping over the stairs even though you're
sitting on the table, hanging out inside the walls, talking to the
cockroaches, looking for some roaches to help you understand. I’m
afraid I’m going to have to shove you down the hill, you can’t watch
the sunset forever. They all sing together. It's something you don't
understand, they all sing their own song, but it blends, and then you
have sunrise.
Once again, silence falls on deaf ears and the
clicking will never end, the robots are chasing away all the mice, but
the mice brought you food and kept you company all those long lonely
nights.
Greg used to sit in his high school cafeteria, watching
the mice at play and at work. He’d watch as they fought, as they ate,
as it looked like they were groping each other. Greg always wondered
what it was like to be a mouse, to eat small bits of ten different
things, then to crap all over the place, then sit and watch as the
humans got more and more frustrated cleaning it up.
Mice…Every
thought held a mouse and every mouse held a piece of god, a complex
resembling the reptilian social order had taken over Greg’s social
skills. He slept alone, at alone, sat alone for endless hours just
watching mice, waiting for one to come close enough, then snatching it
away from the floor, a wall, or a hanging wire. He never hurt the mice,
he was always so careful; each mouse meant so much to him.
The
school never called for an exterminator, they didn’t really mind the
mice, add some flavor to the salads they said, and rightfully so. Greg
wasn’t a vegetarian, but he did like salad, just not school salad. A
poor mixture of chopped iceberg lettuce and a few pieces of broccoli, a
concoction so dastardly he once went into convulsions at the sight, he
had to go to the hospital, they gave him two days ISS for being
disruptive.
Following a steady diet of sex and violence, the
first rate corruption by the crime syndicate known only as the Uber
Sociodestructive Allies, (USA), a conglomerate of “Beer Beer Beer!”
Rises with shouts from the underdog, he quit beating his wife, what a
nice man.
People, they smell, they’re annoying, and very
intolerant. In his watching Greg had seen many things, a lot of them
being people picking on other people for being different. In Greg’s
mind, we should be crucifying the racists and bashing all the
homophobes. All the racist, sexist homophobes and piggies gotta pay.
The police, what an untidy little group of fascists.
The
shattered wills of hollow words fill the building tumult of hellfire
with the putrid decaying resin of the dispensation of life and death.
Bathing the ghost children in wicked slime, letting forth a terrible
laughter that sheds the skin right off the bones. Crawling, grasping
black amorphousness of foggy desire that rides man’s shoulders, dancing
around to reveal his soul. Booze, tits, guns, money, murder, the
American Dream.
Booze, Boobs, and Big Macs, the American Man’s diet.
Foaming
ogerillion breathes heaving a stretching rib cage nearly splitting his
already to tight shirt beat with such intensity that his eyes fall into
the back of his head, and he screams, but no ones there, it’s just Greg
and his mice, in the high school cafeteria in the middle of the night. | | |
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