Theatre Of CrueltyMature

Welcome to a blotted wasteland, spat in my colours. Feel your way through my moth-bitten curtains of formality, of tradition. There. There you will find a new kind of Bastard. The fucked up thing of your dreams. Hollow bones, rattling and chiming the constant disapproval of the faceless. We’ve become none other than the current, the swimming majority, in the ebbing tide of nightmares, we conform and find the dead, bloated and stung by the obstacles that we choose to ignore. I separate. Find a drug on my tongue. An addiction lodged firmly under the soft skin of grey. “We’ve some burning to do…” I hear them whisper.

But they never burn. They ridicule themselves, reform into a constant. A ritual of the life with no reason, no choice, no option, following footsteps, no rhyme, no reason. The eventual collapse of mankind; a forest fire, twisting tongues of romance (if there is such a thing). I engage with the thunder clap, promised to another wave and an image shocks my sight. My mind a question. It begs the answer to the fairy tale beginning, the happy ever after, the reworked life of us all. An intimate kaleidoscope, rimmed with all the passion and fury that we forget to question. It is an option, not a procedure. They murmur fuck alls and struggle in the stream.

I leap, lungs, grasping…air.

The End

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