Pt.1

Blessed breeding ground for misery.
Opium den: my millionaire's mansion.
A blue eye is rolling across the floor, stopping just short of the door.
Lurking behind the sofa, I lye as stiff as a board,
My clothes have crusted round my ankles.
An oozing wad of nicotine gum, my compassionate surrogate pillow.

The last sentiments of a little girl,
I wasn't born to save the world.
That admirable heart, so willing to lend.
It's gona stop
Short,
Never to go again.

Tunnel vision keeps me a little to the right of hysteria as you steal down beside me.
Your try to run your claws through my hair, but it's lost in its seventh stage of growth.
Your fangs puncture the scabbed skin below my ear and a little liquid dribbles from the wound.
It is not blood.

"Hello Baby." – You groan.

(You're only here for torment, to bathe in my lament.)

Pt.2

Sylvia.
Are you still fucking her?
Micky Mouse has built our house.

Jazz was asleep in his cot. (His flesh, like mine, had started to rot)
Many maggots came to feast on our baby's corpse of soft white meat.

2000 years ago, If she was shown a video,
Of this life you have made for us
Then Mary just dropped Jesus.

Don't tell me about hope and happy endings...

I used to be ripe.