I Deliver

by

Adam Gosha

I'll never write in such a state. Again
a heart bleeds out in open air.
Open books burning in unison, the
Charleston flares. Flappers and dull youth
pinch dripping drinks nouveau. Simple
blood flooding the streets of Venice, a
ping-pong eye-ball floats gawking society.
There's a window at the fork in
the downtown road, where gushing
flows out the falls of blood. Afraid to
touch the people stare, at the
mystic bloodfall where no one's dared travel.
To my point, out that
window where the blood is everything
one could desire and one must let go.
Nails inhabit the brains of youth. Fires
melt all who crawl, all who refuse the
plastic smile. All who turn to pity
ugliness, all who are beat and too weak
to turn away. Riches and greed are
the orgasms, the crutch of belonging,
the excuse for living. Religion exists to
keep one sane, a plastic sane of which
one thinks is reality. All art
has been burned, not into the brains, but into
piles of ash pissed on by clean-cut
day-to-dayers. The artists themselves starve
naked in the cold streets surrounded
by money wasted on the selfish fantasy of
happiness. Maestros had the chance,
but failed, to extinguish guilty paths
of deception. I've delivered what I've
seen. Never will anyone know if
truth exists, until they look out
the window into what hell
is themselves.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at THE TRUTH ASTROLOGERS WOULD’NT TELL YOU ABOUT ARIES
by: Paul Curtis
from: Woking, England, UK

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