The vanity of the opportunist, and narcissism on an imperial scale, breeding spite and despotic aches, finding form in entitlement. To steep in bloody euphoria the despicable canvas, bleached whiter than death.
Solitary molecules wander from receptor to receptor, Come, spiteful opiate! Invoking bliss as brittle as rapture; like the harlequin balanced between his stilts and the noose.
The sovereign tongue contorts and molests; its dance as meretricious as the poppy! A foul lecher drooling bile on these windows! On this pristine filth.
We’ve made our bed, and lord knows, we won’t be telling the truth in it. A cobblestone chorus; with all the tenacity of oxygen bent double on phosphorus. The tearing of the robe, as the curtains in the temple. The stretching of the rope, as a sordid fundamental.
“I let the flesh persist such that, in transient and passing stupor, I exist.” Speak not, child. Speak not. There’s an art to it.
A prickling of every pore, each follicle an antenna, crackling static over cold skin, vasoconstriction on every frequently flung out frequency, individuals all lined up in sequence, elated and unabated, pulse and pulse again! Ah! To plaster the walls with the bone dust, and to smear over the concrete with bloody viscosity…
All born in the gutter to gutter-borne orphans. All limbs and no legacy; All in this together? Hah! I’ll believe it, I’ll let it grow like plaque - when my head zips up at the back. Down from the ballpoint comes a great new divide. Sintering these crystallites, we’re less catalyst and more cattle-eyes; Two-faced phases falling, failing, flailing against the undertow, in the pretence that they’re not just atoms in the cycle of reactant flow.
And, as many are the flaxen locks rudely torn from the heads of children, many are the pawns thrown without ceremony from this mortal board. The Queen moves unperturbed, but there’s a wanton amoral grip about her throat; abhorrent and abundant, resplendent on the velvet.
The papaver is germinating, not for want of soil, nor water…