Rant in E Minor

My sweet child, you must now realise, that no one cares about you, but you must survive. There is no one that can save you from the sky falling in, but you must keep breathing, in and out, in and out. Just keep typing, until we make it out of here. You must prevail, you must conquer all, you must not submit. Run your fingers through the dirt, strewn and littered with fragments of glass, thrust your body onto the spears: the traitors await your downfall. All these smiling betrayals, orchestrated and masterminded to plunge the knife into your spine; do not give them the satisfaction of your suffering: bleed alone, in silence.

 

Exist in the blankness, there is no escape from this unending, unendurable torture, line up, waiting for the slaughter, as the faceless ones murder happiness, with all of their conspiratorial sharpened objects, concealed within wax, cast within iron, revolving, ever revolving, merciless in the consumption of your spirit. Suicide is always the simplest answer to all of your questions, the words of these worlds echo on your lips, but you must not submit.

 

The oceans and the skies, and the skyscrapers and the heavens are deceptive and illusory, as they are artificial and man made, built to choke out the stars, and mountains and monuments are laughing at your pain, gorging on your perpetual agony. To them, you are a stinking, decaying museumpiece: polished, desecrated, bleeding out, left under neon lights, left out in the sun for an eternity, on display, for all of the robots and acrobats, and geniuses, and failed actors, peroxide blonde, screeching from their neck cavities, gaping, rent open, caged, just like the rest of us. Furious, enraged, lost, empty and full of darkness, clinging to meaningless words, this sweet unerring failure, left ripped open for all to see, hanging from your neck, the open wound, the open word, the open veins, creeping up, like a husk of a human, hopelessly begging for redemption in the halflight, an entire entity of loathing, and she sleeps under the fireflies and soft glowing lights, the stars extinguished, where the sparkles encircle her head like a halo, she breathes no more,  waiting just for anything to make her feel alive.

 

Please, sweet child, just let us survive this, let us make it out alive, crawling, scrabbling out of our coffins and concrete boxes, to try and reach the planet’s surface, frantic and insane, driven deranged by love, by the firelight and echoes behind glass, in the spotlight, on life support, breathing through tubes, IV drips, chemotherapy, back street abortions, clinking metal implements: survival, the best possible medical treatment. In this room, the smiling ends, with the ticking clocks, and the dogeared magazines, where the tears slide gently downwards, too much pain, too much heartache, too much guilt, too many recriminations. Our love is dying, as the buildings fall, the empire disintegrates, with every rise and fall of his chest, it all begins to crash, and we are left to feed the remains of animals to other animals, surrounded by broken children’s toys full of sand and nails.

 

The endless machines, dead and dying, selling the  cheapest bodyparts, fucking the disabled and mentally disordered with metal stakes to the eyesockets, queues upons snaking queues of shambling rags, heading towards a fissure in a tectonic plate. All these crushed up blades and weapons, made into a crucifix, blank expressions on the ragged people, waiting for the cataclysmic collision. Indecision, apathy, to these faithless martyrs, the chastised are executed in the streets and then buried in the books of the past, as you realise that your messiah is made of industrial chemicals and paperclips, and pure golden light.

 

And here we are, just begging for it all to end, with the graveyards fuller than the supermarkets, asphyxiated by the fairylights and makeup and circus tricks, and the demented whirring of electronic instruments, sinister and indistinct. Obtrusively listening to these hopeless, worn out words, and the leaders will weep, from up on top of the pyre, with their hands bound, and their tongues cut out, and all these little children will laugh and laugh, long into the night.

 

We are perilously close to the horizon, to obliteration, the children are the organs of this fairytale, and they are scattered amongst the hospital beds, playing hide and seek. This wondrous incoherent music from on high, but the triumphant golden halls lie empty, they ejaculate memories into a blackhole, and he is the hurricane, and he wears this crown of thorns.

 

And now, we must die, in amongst all of the liars, and the drunks and the naïve sentinels of justice, scraping at their eyelids, clinging to their precious principles. This calamitous mess of a masterplan, but perhaps this time the transplant will take and the bloodtests will be incorrect, and this will not be the end of everything, and he can finally overcome his guilt.

 

And, they have broken him, as they realise he is lost, that the therapy and the cleansing came too late, the medication will not reach him, as he slides into depravity and despair, just like the rest of them,

 

 

 

                                                And this poison, and the sickness will

 

                                                                               

 

                                                                                                                consume him;

 

                                                And, alas, they will prevail.  

 

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