(no subject)
Take a walk, if you will, down the lowest street of creation; the penultimate ring of hell, a place where if a beggar has the gift of teeth, they flake away like charcoal whenever a grin can be mustered. A place where lust keeps the lamp posts burning, rage keeps the blood red water flowing, and the naïvete keeps the denizens in a circle of blind despair. A place where no star would dare shine down, the sun never rises, and the moon’s maniacal laughter is the soundtrack.
Drifting along like a brimstone in the wind, you’d stumble upon what looks like a beggar, but his occupation is far more filthy. Years of ignoring the obvious have caused his eyes to look like a bleached black t-shirt. Between his cancerous canines lies a suffocating blue piece of flesh, drowned in waterfalls of truth. Boils and cysts congregate on his face, celebrating the damnation he’s enduring. A hair line that retreats like soldiers in a lost battle, and ears like cornucopias of rotting food just out from either side of his head. He would fall on his knees and beg for mercy, had he been granted the privilege of them; years of running away has made that another punishment.
Not a simple beggar, not in the slightest. No, he’s been inflicted with an even worse punishment. Mayhaps the glaze covering his flabby chest would clue you in, or maybe the cheers of the Disney-land-esque line encircling him like a sunflower would clue you in. They unzip their pants like a orchestra playing in the key of rape, more than willing to ignore their torment for a moment in exchange for defaming another.
Collapsing on the heels of his hands, a sigh is mustered before a colossal heave sends vomit spewing forth like an avalanche and his head into the cobblestone, causing him to venture into a place for more pleasant than the one he lives in. While he’s savagely brutalized like a drunken college girl, his mind tries to rationalize why he’s a whore now, and it can’t compose an answer. The only fragment it’s willing to let float his way is that in the grand scheme of things, everyone else is happier this way. His mind believes it, and he can suddenly deal with it. Maybe being a whore isn’t so bad if it makes everyone else happy.
Drifting along like a brimstone in the wind, you’d stumble upon what looks like a beggar, but his occupation is far more filthy. Years of ignoring the obvious have caused his eyes to look like a bleached black t-shirt. Between his cancerous canines lies a suffocating blue piece of flesh, drowned in waterfalls of truth. Boils and cysts congregate on his face, celebrating the damnation he’s enduring. A hair line that retreats like soldiers in a lost battle, and ears like cornucopias of rotting food just out from either side of his head. He would fall on his knees and beg for mercy, had he been granted the privilege of them; years of running away has made that another punishment.
Not a simple beggar, not in the slightest. No, he’s been inflicted with an even worse punishment. Mayhaps the glaze covering his flabby chest would clue you in, or maybe the cheers of the Disney-land-esque line encircling him like a sunflower would clue you in. They unzip their pants like a orchestra playing in the key of rape, more than willing to ignore their torment for a moment in exchange for defaming another.
Collapsing on the heels of his hands, a sigh is mustered before a colossal heave sends vomit spewing forth like an avalanche and his head into the cobblestone, causing him to venture into a place for more pleasant than the one he lives in. While he’s savagely brutalized like a drunken college girl, his mind tries to rationalize why he’s a whore now, and it can’t compose an answer. The only fragment it’s willing to let float his way is that in the grand scheme of things, everyone else is happier this way. His mind believes it, and he can suddenly deal with it. Maybe being a whore isn’t so bad if it makes everyone else happy.