Beg my indulgence, indulge me with your begs. Stand up on dead legs and leg it for dead. Suffocating under the berating hatred that we all have in us. Amongst us and against us. What do we become when we finally realise we are nothing. Do we carry on or do we stop. If we stop does anyone notice? We can shuffle off the earth into dirt and into space and nobody may shed a tear. Waiting for the weighting of our insignificance for none of us have any significance. Recognition is arbitrary and I am the arbiter of the ass-backwards human abattoir. Men believe they are emasculated by showing emotions yet they do not know that emotions are the masculator. Previously they were protected by bully-boy bravado in a ‘peaceful’ project of proclivity poised in a prattle battle of perfection; little did they know we all have a presupposed direction whatever the promotion of solvent values. I am pained to pass on this precise potent snippet of the absurdity of the abused de-masculated but gossip is gossip and clacking tongues must waggle and snuggle on the grim of the rim of the mouth.
Heroes blinded by their natural order. Blinded by the natural order of graft. Blighted by the incoming shipments of arrogance and self-doubt. If you miss it you have probably never seen it and that, I am afraid, is your own fault. I will not be held accountable for your lack of insight. I hold you accountable for the books of loss. Petrified by the darkness and putrefied by the light. Man’s manhood dropped into the putrescent mass of those in the streets. In the streets and never in the sheets. Sheets are to be kept clean unlike the filth and squalor of the mind. In the permanent vision there is gangrene sheen of the gangrenous cog. I’m not sure what I’m doing here just rolling over time like children roll over and die. All I wanted was a hearth and home in a not distant time zone but alas, NO.
Negation negates the needs to say no in a final blow of snow like purity. The only chance of escape is the early salvation you experience in the cradle even though in the future you will regard these as mere scraps of crumbs from the table of the afterthought. Disgust is all we are after, distrust is all I receive.
Fragile as a baby.
Hollow and decrepit