We’re in the wild wood, now,
over the sky and into the deep end.
The failing survivors are biting the frost on beggar’s hearts
to make it through the night.
You see them in droves,
coming to chew off your only hope,
just to fill their stomachs with your disgust
and chase off their moment of doom.
Kill a butterfly to call the winds of change, they say.
Candy coloured liars.
Assimilation is the key word.
Acceptable projection at the proper moment
in the most effective way–
Intentions are rotten panic,
coiled in the desperate tension of false hope,
in the streets and at the dinner table.
It smells of salt drowning in fear–
the old illusion of that over excited baboon,
long dead and still leading the way.
More crashing eyes roaming the streets these days
than maggots in the belly of a dead whale.
It’s frightening and amazing to see it,
bastardized flesh game,
The impossible scene
standing boldly fake,
pretending to be heartless.
You can watch it with your own eyes-
the dog faced streets are seething in it.
An endless parade of lazy,
painted brazenly with high colours,
pink wound smiles and scared happy eyes.
The impossible scene.
Delicate china doll cheekbones
shattering as they pass dirty, toothless losers
sleeping in the pavement cracks between mud and hair.
Decaying love songs withering on benches,
waiting at the door for a special reason to feel joy-
waiting to begin the ending.
if you look at the right time,
you can see the clay of a molded expression crumble;
and for a single, infinite second
you can see clear, a beast, raging to be set free,
hungry and mean.
It doesn’t look like we’re going to make it, after all.
Better gather up the children
and seal their hearts in the tomb of love.
Easier to learn when you’re young.
I’ve got a box fit for the occasion,
made from the sex of Mary and Mother.
You bring the altar.
We’ll make it legal in the eyes of Greed and Domination.
Fear is the new friendly face on the billboard of civilized street talk,
laughing and fucking to remain hidden in the blinding white of relentless orgasms.
You can smell it in the crowds.
The failing survivors,
decorating their genitals with TV show enthusiasm
and looking for the prize with a pocket full of cash.
Ready for an adventure.
skillfully crafted into the glass of fear,
picking up the pace with increasing impatience.
Breaking glass in my eardrums,
a cry of warning.
I step back.