my drug dealer has retired and became a baker.

 all sorts of fade outs without a pick-me-up

the words come out but I recognize the touchdown

of whiskey cola and ageless routines

where the afterparties are at dawn

and empty conversations lead to stranger beds

bow over and take whatever pleasantries broken hearts

shards, pieces and ruined curtains on good days!

bargain at will as long as you are willing to bend the truth

once found twice gone all the way, to the priests funeral

we obey and dig our own grave.

candy we peddle, colourful tasteful belogings we exchange

for gold and favour that steals sleep or makes you weak

to glass, song or the inbetween of world colliding

whichever feat that steals breath and scares the living shit out of me

nothing new, the doctor tells me he cannot help those afraid to die.

so valor I pursue, love I endure and creativity I lounge for

respectfully declined in a devout angled situation of wall to body

starring away at very detailed nothings linking no dots

no pattern, no knock-on affections to play for in the distance

towards the escape, a getaway from word to worth

the spoken triangulations be dammed

feel the holy spirit disengage from a primal bellow

the volume expand the pages tear apart my expectations

a burning wreckage we call hope is static and not at all well guarded

who should pray for the undead may himself be disregarded

as clinically better off dead and may it be painfully drawn

his organ preserved and dignity harvested for future recollection

to bestow upon my maker a greater insult and revolutionize the disease

love and living are both terminal that much strikes me as concrete

firm well travelled road that too often is lumpy, deemed unfit for purpose

and generally speaking intent in making the jorney unsatisfatory, the horror

fits the design, the meltdown of a sneeze strikes the systematic shutdown

of all my very being (that of course not amounting to an awful lot)

partial to the tickles and funny caracter, my oh my, prickle me

as if a bleed out is not a refining action demanding (a) taste.