Teaspoons don't exist

There are no angels,
There are no people who can tell you how to feel.
For all thoughts are human,
Filtered through a conscious mind
Where only feelings burst through
From the subconscious.

But people try and try to help each other;
Swimming into the wind.
Is the joy hidden in there?
It smells ripe, but there’s
A rope in the valley that
Drags the sky into the craters below.

They covered the spaceship in fur
To make it look more real.
But leopards need oxygen
And don’t pretend to be what they’re not.

In hot granules of searing truth
We gulp our medicine,
But the dosage isn’t stated,
And teaspoons don’t exist.

With the numbing realisation
Of the impotence of speech,
Comes a vacant peace;
A net of balanced equations.

Whereas before, when the sun
Broke a hope-token through our sky,
We sat indoors with our own light,
Creaming at our reflection and wasting our seed.

Berlin Notes.

COME DOWN VON BASTIE

Spin flaccid plastic,
Twist these melted spines.
Glug your fat gluey oil down
Your pants and lie there in your
Whore gunk

But later, in the grey,
Dry birds dump liquid shit
Into your weeping eyes, and there's
No sun left to dry them

Older Boys

With a cock like a short, swelled giant's thumb
We dry hump the world until our acrid semen
Splatters on our contraceptive jeans

Built to protect, forced to rape by the older boys
They laughed away from the suicide attempt
Into the arms of fat celebrities

Wan, pallid, ashen, fair
Dark, rich, thick, solid
But all the gold in the world won't buy a ticket home