Ages of you
Ages of you,
pictures by the flowers,
sat there for hours,
thinking of you,
with my heart empty,
but not my mind of memories,
and me, me missing you,
missing you intensely,
although it had been a year, almost two,
the feelings had not died down.
And there was still sadness,
and tears,
as I drank whisky and beers,
and still powerful and strong was my love for you,
my love for you.
Oh, how weird it is to be alone,
alone upon my unhappy throne,
thinking of your kisses and your cuddles,
as my tears roll down my cheeks,
and my heart,
my heart it is still in pieces,
and I no longer without you feel at home,
yes, I no longer feel at home,
and there is only misery in my heart,
now, we are two worlds apart,
and I am lost without you,
and my soul is gone,
my soul is gone,
having disappeared from within me,
the minute you were gone,
and now, I feel more dead than alive,
more dead than alive upon my unhappy throne,
where I sit drunk and alone,
where I sit drunk and alone.
Blackouts
Futura,
the city of the damned upon the ravaged Earth,
the Earth shattered by the weapons and the inhumanity and the savagery of man,
a place where menial workers go about their miserable way,
and killers,
with little time for peace who go looking for their prey.
Futura,
a place where death calls regularly,
a place where there are blackouts,
and attacks,
and people sent into comas by the drugs companies who test out new drugs on hapless people passing by,
and everyday,
there are people with drunken hangovers,
from the bachinalian feasts upon pills,
alcohol replacements pills,
cheap and available 24 hours a day,
Futura,
a city with anger and frustration and rage,
a ferocious beast,
the city,
a city on the edge,
a city with teeth,
a city that is not a place to live if you can help it,
and definitely not a place to exist in happinness,
a destructive place with most of the population high,
or insane,
a place no good for the heart,
a place no good for the brain.
Bury
Bury your heart,
and bury your mind,
and take your time,
with your boots upon the chair,
and your mind elsewhere,
yes, hungry bellies,
need food to eat,
in the back streets of futura,
in the slums,
where no one barely sleeps,
and the waves of happinness come,
only with amphetamines,
and guns,
as on the streets the crazy roam,
and at home,
the TV tries to sell you dreams,
dreams that are far too expensive,
dreams of far off places that you will probably never go,
and that are far beyond most peoples reach,
whilst the insane outside they howl and screech,
they howl and screech,
and in the streets of futura,
the drunks they desperately drink the puddles outside the brewery,
where the beer it runs out in trickles from pipes that leak,
and amphetamine dreams numb the babies,
and their parents,
and in the air great despair,
and poverty everywhere,
in the futura,
where it is the survival of the fittest,
and the parents they try to hack the cryptocurrencies,
hoping to get rich,
hoping to pay for medical treatment for every disease,
futura,
a place that everyone wishes to leave,
a place that wishes to be,
a place where everyone is high and suffers for their sanity.
Goodbye Johnny
Goodbye Johnny,
goodbye,
a tall man plucks out a dead man’s eye,
and pops it in his mouth and sucks on it a while,
goodbye Johnny he says,
goodbye,
well, Johnny was barely a man anyway,
but mostly a cybernetic organism who liked to whine and cry,
and who can be recycled mostly in exchange for bootleg whisky and gin,
alcohol so dangerous that you will always feel like you have died,
died with a smile on your face,
alcohol that generates hallucinations,
and that gives you super powers that make you feel like you can fly,
fly,
fly,
fly,
and live,
even if you throw yourself out of a building,
yes, there’s no recollection and incredible reflexes when on the juice,
the name for all the alcohol made in the shanty town,
sometimes known as the juice from the otherside,
the demented side,
the cities shanty town where animals are fermented with narcotics and hallucinogenics and made into the juice,
the juice that helps you forget life in Futura,
and that gives you strength and that helps you fly, fly, fly and survive.
In the night
In the night,
the bullets fly,
as demented killers,
with black hearts and depraved minds,
search in the alleyways,
for their prey,
wanting a thrill in dangerous times,
wanting to see the blood spill,
wanting diamonds and dollars,
and wanting to buy girls who shout and holler,
killers who want to eradicate their competition,
and who want those numbed out worn out burnt out fools out of their minds,
the menial workers who are not really alive,
yes, in Futura in the night,
the bullets fly,
and bodies lay rotting in the gutter,
in Futura,
and the goal,
the cleansing of the city,
the eradication of humankind,
the mass extermination of the population,
the decimation of every human,
and their bonuses for cleaning citywide after getting it ready for its destruction,
and after receiving the money that comes with the death of the population and the salvation of the land,
from the eradication of the rundown city,
the city that blights the land and the city that is a bloody scourge on the eyes.
In the semetary
In futura,
in the mortuary,
they tell jokes to dead corpses,
and feed them to the animals,
as men in bio suits,
they play rock and roll music,
and off the stomachs of the dead they eat their dinners,
whilst shopping for goods on their mobile phones and watching TV,
as they try to smarten up their miserable homes,
and in the semetary by the polluted sea,
it is as melancholy as can be,
as the workers,
they smoke cigarettes,
and whistle in between and stare out to sea,
and are high on amphetamines,
as they bury the corpses unceremoniously,
and hide their drug dealing money,
whilst laughing their heads off,
and fall into the freshly dug graves,
and claim they are working,
by drinking all day,
and acting crazed whilst reciting poetry.
Man on a mission
A dark night in Futura,
in the seediest part of town,
a place where even the birds commit suicide,
a dark night in Futura with a plot in mind,
a man sneaking through the shadows in the mazes of the city,
the toxic gas filled smoggy streets,
almost oxygen less,
a place with terrible accrid toxicity that if you don’t wear a mask you will surely go blind,
yes, a dark night in Futura,
a man with plans,
a man with plans and scams,
plans for nuclear fission,
and plans for a nuclear missile,
a man on a mission,
a man with a suitcase,
racing away down the alleyways,
walking through the slime and the grime,
a man with money on his mind,
a man hoping to cleanse and destroy the city with a nuclear device,
a man hoping to kill all the citizens at one time,
a man hoping to win first prize,
a man looking to revel in the site of the nuclear explosion from a distance with cool sunglasses on,
a man that doesn’t give a damn about slaughter,
and who will happily watch the destruction of the city with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and a broad by his side.
Mutated food
In Futura,
a high rise,
a high rise painted as black as the night,
a high rise with many blocked up windows,
and strange people inside,
and in one apartment a man who lives with his mother,
a man who lives with his mother even though she’s died,
a man,
a man who feeds her biogenetic growth hormones,
and who eats her for dinner all the time.
Neon lit
Neon lit,
popping pills,
taking hits,
drinking alcohol,
whilst others lay in pools of sweat upon the floor,
and have fits,
and the dancers,
they dance upon the stage,
and shoot those who try it on,
and those who are stupid or far too drunk they are blown to bits,
but no one says anything,
in the pits,
the futura dive,
where not everyone survives,
and people roll their eyes,
they roll their eyes for their fun,
people who are over medicated and far too relaxed,
and whose bodies far too often quit,
and the bar staff,
are happy to take any money that they can,
hell, they’d even take money from a baby if they could,
and no, they would not give a damn,
not give a damn,
in futura,
in futura in the pit.
She
Yes,
she was here,
in fear,
fleeing for her life,
from a psychopath with an axe,
yea,
Futura City police they took out a revenge attack,
and now there’s a dead man with an axe,
the policeman says to the reporter,
and the reporter with his shoes all covered in blood,
smokes a cigarette,
yeah, he’s not on amphetamines like most,
and he has only just popped in on the shuttlecraft from the off world colony,
and the reporter sighs at the news,
and he seems disappointed the policeman notices and mildly annoyed,
but the policeman says,
there was a whole family liquidised,
and sacrificed,
in a block of flats,
a voodoo ceremony,
yeah, people high on crack,
so, if it is a slow news day why don’t you write about that?
And he shrugs his shoulders,
but it ain’t nothing unusual for futura city,
but it’s the facts.
She’s gone
Story telling in space,
on the way to somewhere distant in time,
in a spacecraft with the remnants of the human race,
and with memories of Amalie,
the singer from the sea,
yes, she’s gone,
she’s gone to the beyond,
with a pretty song,
yes, we remembered her from the break of day,
to the end of the night,
and for the first time in years we let our tears fall like rain,
surrounded by the destruction of our days,
and contamination,
and radiation,
and bullet holes,
amidst the rubble of the buildings,
and the angry,
the fearful and the destroyed,
and the bodies laying all around rotting in the gutters of the city,
where so many of us were permanently ripped so brutally away from the terrible dream like states in which so many of us stayed,
a place where we only survived helped by the drugs,
the pills and the insanity,
in Futura City,
where so many lost their lives,
when a new type of bomb ripped apart the city,
and decimated most of the population,
in so many brutal ways,
but we, we who survived,
we sang Amelies song,
we sang it as as we got in the spacecraft,
knowing that we had been through hell and had somehow,
god knows how,
had survived,
survived with terrible sights in our minds and the sounds of screams still resonating in our ears,
as we lifted into the sky,
and the rubble of Futura City grew smaller beneath us,
and the ruined Earth lay before our eyes,
and we remembered Amelie as the spacecraft began to rise,
and Amelie,
she tried to save us,
she tried to save us and tried to stop the madman,
she tried to stab him twice before he exploded the bomb,
and the city it was destroyed,
destroyed forever,
and we, we sang Amelies song,
with happy hearts and ecstatic minds,
as we kissed the Earth goodbye.
The jangle of keys
The jangle of keys,
a man with a disease,
a man with urgency,
a man hustling a prospective tenant from the street,
a man trying to avoid the ressurected mutated teradactyls,
the mutated teradactyls that fly so high and that pick on pedestrians with ease,
the mutated teradactyls that eat pedestrians flesh so happily,
there outside in the street,
shuffling feet,
a cripple and a man diseased,
and the jangle of keys,
and the cripple,
the landlord, eager to please,
eager to please because no money rarely comes in Futura in the city without killing somebody,
and here on a Tuesday,
the landlord unlocks the door,
and the landlord he stands five foot four,
five foot four with neon hair that glows in the low light of the hallway,
and who smells like BO,
the landlord, who doesn’t care anymore,
and neither does the tennant,
but here, rent is as cheap almost as the cemetary,
and you get free dissentary,
because the toilet looks like it has seen germ warfare,
and it doesn’t want to exist anymore,
yes, a crippled landlord and a tenant,
yeah, its a great place the landlord says,
and you won’t survive anywhere else in the city,
yes, with your unhealthy looks,
and your head for books,
you won’t survive I am sure,
and the man hands over the money,
and the landlord gets out a submachine gun,
and the tennant is no more,
blood stains and bits of flesh all over the walls,
food for the mutated terradactyls I am sure.
No Comments