Asparagus Tips Made Out Of Plastic: Part Two
Well?
Can you feel sorry? This exception ceased, beliefs smashed.
Everything you believed in cast down and shattered,
Crushed under feet of molten fire, burning with frenzied rage,
Blood flowing in streams, victims drowning in screams.
Mothers smothered, cut to shreds, their children burnt.
Proud fathers cut down in prime-time by the mind-wielding fire.
Send the lambs to slaughter, so they know the sleepless slumber
In the field of open sores, weeping wounds that scream sorrow, eternally.
“The goat will see you now.”
Eldritch keeper of the Book of Plague
Expects his quota to be upheld.
Effects of the drug on the mind, the
Eyes that blaze furiously to see you far distant.
Blinded by the darkness, set free by the lies.
Welcome to stage two, continued retardation, malignant cell growth.
An ecstasy of fumbled lines and mumbled sighs, repeated at length.
Everyman speaks out at last, amidst proletariat cheers galore,
Despite the bottled British piss falling around him, cast up from the floor...
Crushed by the excited crowd, all rushing to hear the truth.
Floored by a wayward elbow as the wheelchair passes overhead.
I stab you repeatedly, until your fingers bleed in exhaustion,
And your mind retches in compulsion, whipping boy that you are.
I used you as an intermediary for me for years, for all but her,
And that might just be about to change…
Ho, hum.
Stab wounds take longer to heal than you’d think,
Spiritual wasteland, my desert soul, a gutted albatross around your neck.
A woman’s idea of happiness isn’t at odds with one's own:
Manipulative slut hammered down, brain leakage, severe trauma, a wreck.
The guitar solo fits somewhere around here, eh Jesse?
Or can you not play with your fingers broken?
Existentialist bullshit spewed out over a bed of colourful lies.
All too easy to vomit forth your sparkly musings, short and sweet.
The proof of the pudding’s in the eating, however…
“The goat will see you now.”
Sadistic, isn’t it? The march of raindrops, patterns down the window pane,
Rhythms echoing inside your brain, the silent choice ahead.
Gina cut her knee whilst doing the shopping, needs a banned aid from you.
Or was it just a marriage of convenience? To keep her out of the way,
A woman’s idea of happiness reduced to servitude, or in this case…
Method man, down to the smallest detail. No stone left unbroken.
Execution without failure, (without mistake) without remorse.
Prostitution of belief, arrogance beyond understanding.
Monument to the weary inhabitant of the shell, tired of life.
She loves me, she loves me not. Flower picked apart, petals strewn,
Decisions, decisions. To take the plunge or to hold and continue your misery?
This eye has closed forever, and is not opening for anyone, whoever they may be.
Spastic jerkiness replaced by the calm of the ocean grave.
Insane?
And what have you done to deserve it? Stuck in your own world,
Ignoring the voices in your head, haughtily proclaiming your sanity.
Timorous tappings at the door signify visitations, conversations in your mind.
Instructions, guidance from a higher power than your own.
Ram it down, seek her out. Apologise for your disability, try to rectify being blind.
Kick out the jams, and sever the lock. Buy the carpet a new floor,
But is it still there? Or has the flame finally gone out? A candle in the wind...
Insane!
Ying yang, ying yang. Swing, swung, she sang, sang.
Club the seals and seal the clubs, silence their collective soul.
Yes, Ken, it does have a fucking meaning, believe it or not.
And what can I expect now, but for this to be quoted with a roll?
If you want to do it, then you do it your way, and rot.
I am what I was written to be. No more, no less.
"The goat will see you now."
I met her in the library of the mind, two lost souls in search of a clue,
Destiny in the drawing stage, planning the future anew.
Damaged by life, yet tired of death, we forged a bond unbreakable,
Like a gypsy with his loot, she and I belong together.
Never to be separated, by god or man. We form our own philosophy:
Better to have bleeding hearts than leaky minds,
Or running noses brought on by bad weather.
Bedlam betrayal, kill, jamming with the best of them. Sweet, sweet music.
Ashtray emptied, tables swept. Chieftain buried with pomp and glamour.
A second attempt at fuelling the fire, give her that which she desires, ha.
Fool that you are, to even attempt to still the ever-present clamour.
And you wonder why you were abandoned? The goat will see you now.
Thanks for running it, Naffy. Good luck, Ken. And no offence, by the way. 
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