Everybody hates me and nobody listens to me.
I don’t belong. I’m faking it. Where am I supposed to be? Not here that’s for sure. Return to the Astral Plane. Dimensions.
In Moments of Torpor the Cosmic Shift sired 8 progeny from Pandora’s Box. Like a decaying socialite rotting away in an abandoned 1920s hotel. Stewing in her own feces and vomit. Opposed to the light. Darkness her 4ever friend. You know that old crone recluse with the Astral twin. Subject to repeated dilemmas. Fragmented into dust and cobwebs. Decaying. A human Titanic. An accident on the way somewhere to happen.
Bordello Orphan morphed into the Corpse Bride. Eyes forever following passing strangers seeking her fleeting groom. I can still hear her screaming as her body free fell into a Mercedes Cadillac BMW SUV. Mummification. Embalming Nation.
She will destroy you when you let her. Return to your lonely garish garret with smoking Gauloises.
Give me the slow creamy version that slides down the throat easy. This elevator only goes one direction with one destination. The City Morgue.
Running Salty Rabid claws over raw cuts. Berry Kisst Blood. Nothing but dog shit and drugs. Bums. Crack pots. Crack heads. Singing the dog shit blues.
A Broken Mirror.
A Broken Room.
A Broken Me.
Meaningless hanging onto mere existence like a vulture buzzard hangs over a carcass.
The sharp twinged spines of my tapered Tiara are giving me an Excedrin headache.