Words of Douchery

I don’t think love is the answer

But I am an animal;

I never said it was a cure all.

Every morning a new world starts

To tear down my old one and the

Search beings to an end.

The morning is my end.

Every morning

Empty dread sits in my stagnant face;

He pulls his fat dick out to end some

Of the answers and ventilation comes

At night. The morning conflicts with everything.

Brassy existence. Fools with answers.

Slap it down on flesh.

Reviews

[Pax Analog]

Deadpan slapstick of an a priori "alien" kind (this IS the other world).

"Love" can only resonate if it is the affective component of deliciously nonpareil soul-mind symbiosis. Or principled compassion for the dying. Otherwise, it's a cheap sentimental drug for fearful grinning skulls.

"Douchery" for the phantasmal mummery is straight gospel.