The paper wind rustling all around us,
Yesterday's newspaper's screaming in our ears,
The infinite cliches compressing our heads together,
Your cells imbued with mine,
Colours clashing and cavorting in the desert rain,
Drenched in disease and happiness,
Who is left to turn to?
Who is right to turn to?
Turning, turning, turning on the axis again,
Away from their world this time,
No longer watching detached,
The audience absconded and constructed their own puppet theatre
Out of lint and butterfly wings,
The puppets spinning on their spiderweb strings,
Our strings entangling, a bloody mess of mangled knitted limbs on stage
Aborted road-kill at the gates,
A dome of lies to shelter us and shatter us,
The invisible worms consuming our innards,
Eviscerating the containers of innocence,
Recycling us on the earth to be reborn again
On our bed, our flower bed...
O Rose, thou art sick...
We consummated our loathing like lovers;
Like Heathcliff fucking Cathy's corpse.
I have enough blood and noise to paint with now, thanks.
But I don't want to paint any more.