Electronic babble,
shove off with thine elastic attitude.
You condescending fuck hole, you tiny little prick,
you don’t have the persuasion to crash down my power
of hope with rationalization.

Tower of rubble,
shovel dirt back in that open hole.
My soul residing?
Hiding there.

A devilish grin of rich desire,
more fire devouring flame,
and shame on you, rust beggar,
the one I’ve longed for.
You splendid whore.

No gift perhaps to reason
on the lips of this sad, mad man.
Overtaken by a vile dream in which
I tumbled to earth on my disassembled feet,
and you must not treat me like the others.
We are not one in the same.
Removed, proved to be of higher honor,
least the trumpets wail.
Fail to find release from this anchor,
rancor of bullshit ties, these drownings.

Electronic babble,
tower of rubble,
shovel dirt back in that open hole.
No gift perhaps to reason
on the lips of this sad/madman.
God forgive my slightly shifting lines
in thought disfiguration.

Meat as meat…
defeat the source of that which spurns thee.
As for me, do not mistake my misgivings
as indifference to this madness
that surrounds me.
Often time, I flee
from this torturous
mindstyle/deathstyle
reunion.

Just another onion head.

Polished meal of spine
structure and jaundiced horns.

All the endless fragments
of this distorted view of life.
My soul, sold.
My being? Maybe.

Toss, turn, burn
the smile that tries to waste you.
There is no hope
in repetitive warfare/nightmare
but then again,
who the fuck am I to care?
Let us take heed of memories foretold,
dear skin.

—

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“Dear Skin” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.