antistar
I've smoked a thousand cigarettes since the sun went down and the world's gotten as quiet as death.
Lipstick on my stomach and scratches on my back. Lines down my legs from your heels. Everything you leave on me is red. Leaving you deeply asleep and wound in torn sheets, I kick open the window and stand on the ledge.
If you go to a graveyard and lay your ear on the rich soil, you can hear the shifting of bones and the sticky sussurus of decomposition. Stand up here, high up here with me now: if you listen closely, very closely, you can hear the world resonate with its own stark fucking mediocrity. The walls and windows and streetlights and phone lines and rails and roads still ring with the thirty-second product-placement muzak-squirts that took the place of singles and songs and things that were ideas instead of adverts.
This world's all over. You've taken away the point of living in it. This world's all over and I'm telling you it's all over and I'm ending it. Look up. You've deadened us all so we'd fit into a machine even you don't understand or control. Taken away the point of speaking and walking and voting and thinking. Bred your little agents from your Justin and Avril farms to take away the point of music. Dead little things called stars.
This world's all over. Look up. Listen. It's quieter now. The silence of the vacuum in front of the shockwave of a bomb blast. An eternal piece of a second. Tomorrow morning is going to be very, very different. It's what I deserve, it's what she deserves, and it is very very definitely what you deserve, you bastards.
Look up. The stars are going out.
(C) Warren Ellis 2004
Lipstick on my stomach and scratches on my back. Lines down my legs from your heels. Everything you leave on me is red. Leaving you deeply asleep and wound in torn sheets, I kick open the window and stand on the ledge.
If you go to a graveyard and lay your ear on the rich soil, you can hear the shifting of bones and the sticky sussurus of decomposition. Stand up here, high up here with me now: if you listen closely, very closely, you can hear the world resonate with its own stark fucking mediocrity. The walls and windows and streetlights and phone lines and rails and roads still ring with the thirty-second product-placement muzak-squirts that took the place of singles and songs and things that were ideas instead of adverts.
This world's all over. You've taken away the point of living in it. This world's all over and I'm telling you it's all over and I'm ending it. Look up. You've deadened us all so we'd fit into a machine even you don't understand or control. Taken away the point of speaking and walking and voting and thinking. Bred your little agents from your Justin and Avril farms to take away the point of music. Dead little things called stars.
This world's all over. Look up. Listen. It's quieter now. The silence of the vacuum in front of the shockwave of a bomb blast. An eternal piece of a second. Tomorrow morning is going to be very, very different. It's what I deserve, it's what she deserves, and it is very very definitely what you deserve, you bastards.
Look up. The stars are going out.
(C) Warren Ellis 2004