Dirge

Girth and girdle.
Grind and grey and be great and unmonotonized. Feeding frenzy of my soul.
Sold, sooooooooooooo low.
lad.
laid lead leaping
Licking luck of sick fucks.
Dire time of dry wanting sitting sadness.
Options me, me me, sold sadness bike and raid and riots and blood.
Red red red wine.
whine wane wane bruce boys and girls and the rain on the roof
and the truth is. I don’t want any of this.
And the revelling and the hard work and the work,
hard or otherwise, the choices. I always wanted choices. The overstimulation of ideas and my happy thoughts and the links of dumb stuff that i’ve said.
out there forever.
And the stupid opinionated chaos of boys versus girls.
And my sick sick head.
My eyes. Perspective, limited shifting stupid. Boring basic internet writing wasted shared ideas and piss.
Water bottles for feet and hands and my cheeks, red and prunes killing my insides as I focus on all the things i’ve missed and put into the wind and my heart blends and melds and melts falling beneath me into a sea of unsaid things to people I love and care about but cant because MDMA isn’t good or cheap and nobody responds and i’m careful with myself only up until a point until honestly there’s nothing left by the rust and my heart doesn’t shift like the gears on a broken clockwork bike.
Grandfather passed away.
A stroke of luck that I can put that to the back of my mind, some times but internally, i’m sifting. Broken, sick angry and polarized.

Pole axe.
ace, heart. Speed. Club. Doom. Diamonds. Girls. Dicks.
Fucking ridiculous. OUT ousses. ROUSS.
hurt the hurt the hurt.

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