We come to the end of all the lying. The fairy stories of god and money and civilization. The long con that just keeps going on, the pathetic emperor with his dick hanging out. The be yourselfs all part of the misdirection for those of us unwanted and without place, the frills and thrills just there to distract you from the butcher’s blade. Look to your left, look to your right. Whatever’s there shouldn’t be.
Cold hands and come to Jesuses. The greed older than gold, the ill paced fire of the changing states of matter all we’re heir to, the platitudes that spill from our foul flapping yaps that ought to earn us each a bullet in the brain printed up on anything that’ll take the words. The legacy of the liar apes. Sound and fury and the which-a-way wind.
Have nots and never weres. Trains that never leave the station. Plans made just to make God laugh. The bubble begging to burst. Keep lying to yourself. It’s that, and meat and murder— the crowded table, the empty larder, and the contents of the cup that runneth over.
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