bend forward

In the meantime, there were so many things I looked forward to. Many of them an illusion, which I let grow out of boredom. Selling myself for less is what I’m best at. Hanging around with the underachievers, dwelling in the shadows, letting them fuck me ‘till I’m sore. Look at what’s left: sometimes it’s hard to look at the bigger picture. The frame is too narrow, let it through. There is no answer. There is no excuse. I want none. I don’t have one for myself. Or maybe, just maybe… Running away to a little house, no sound, no phone, no news. I don’t want to know or see or say or write or paint or draw or smell or think or remember. A place that stays still through time, a place that will burn for years and years, monotony at its best. Staying still forever while you move around, like little ants building up into an army. You move, but I’m the still point. Revolve. Sail. Hang on to your fucking sinking boats. Drown. See if I care. I’m the lighthouse.



Talk to me like I haven’t seen it all. I saw it. I felt it. The death of that naïve hope that’s born within the depths of worship itself, that which is to beautiful to be looked upon without feeling disoriented. Too beautiful to be looked upon without a hateful eye. I’ve seen it. The mutilation of given assets as a way of acceptance. The murder of that which I loved, because IT would’ve been able to kill me instead.



Destroy them. Show them that there’s more.



Fighting urges that burn from the inside. Disappearing within the maze of the oh-so-gorgeous simulation that is our story. Our story is made of nothing, made of everything. Made of the same fabric as the threads of oblivion.



Bend forward, spread your legs and take it. It’s going to hurt a bit in the beginning, and you’ll get to swallow it in the end.



Go ahead and pour it all in.





Stop the spinning, the turning, the murmurs, the departs.

Stop them, together they’re a black hole

I’m just what spins towards the inside



But I will remember and remind them that this is a fight, that it’s their heads or mine.

I am the burning house. I am the lighthouse. I am the Phoenix.

I stay still and watch while the world is on fire.

With all of you in it

Burn them for me, but let me watch them

Let me hear them squeal

Like the filthy pigs they are

Let me smell it

The ripping of the insides, the warm and fetid smell of the pouring blood.