stare into the sun for a hundred years bored with all this postmortem talk it never meant a thing to me before never moved me an inch higher to where i need to be so why stick around while its slowly dissected down to resembling a gutted a piece of road kill that could be damn near anything surrounded by sycophants digging in the dirt at all hours i dont share their death-ridden enthusiasm i get strange looks from pancake-faced raccoon-eyed worshipers of the darkness that never outgrew their teenage years i have no desire to run my fingers through that autopsy which isnt an appreciation of lasting accomplishment but a necrophilia wet-dream praise it has dollars & cents written in bloody fingerprints left all over the scene of the alleged crime which wasnt really a crime at all only an old book of quotes with the pages falling out not eagerly anticipating his return it may be another ugly mob moment by the previously sheepish masses that feel their faith threatened by anything that dissolves their television reality i dont think i could stomach such a display i certainly couldnt stand by & watch id have to be strung up too or i couldnt live with nor forgive myself im not waiting to punish myself with the sharpest object i can dig up then paint religious symbols on my walls until spent arteries run dry i have no desire to throw my hands into the air & shout hallelujahs then have my hands disappeared like victor jara & che guevara second coming could fill soul train though if he said something that made them have to think theyd cry out that anybody can mimic those lines if he said anything different theyd scream heretic & infidel & traitor to the cause
Posted on: Fri, 02 Jan 2015 17:17:19 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015