“And still rats run like thieves in broad moonlight; or volleys of dead matter behind the visage of the clouds; keep your nose to the grindstone, sonny boy. Fragile like a spiderweb in a wind tunnel, Orange Bastard with Shitheap Regalia bitterly laps at his fresh wounds. His innards grind down yesterday’s introspective luncheon; like pink lasers spurting pink lasers into frigid, interstellar space. Plagued by zero-gravity migraine. Fretworks of fire. Cling tenaciously to ancient convictions like a moth to a funeral pyre. Manufacture your memory, divagate your dialect. Take a walk on the disintegrating bay of black hole lagoon, you dolorous dips hit dopefiend.

But when the air runs out
And the bone marrow goes missing
You’ll be there
Reticent and grey
While you trace shapes in the snow.

Staring perfect circle holes into linoleum floor tile of ambiguous biome, assurances are drilled into my head. Infared trespassers glowing with the saffron embers of affectation clench my larynx with diseased, skeletal fingers. The immaterial contortionist drifts out of and slams back into my corporeal flesh prison like a shit-for-brains Stockholm’s earthbound phantom. Drink mournfully from the ivory goblet of dreams into a place where the brisk evening air would fill your lungs and lift you to blue neon tomorrows, unfettered by the dull rust of inquiry. These frozen inferno eyes no longer weep for me and now they weep for nobody. These hymns and soliloquies no longer sigh unwaveringly from the skyscrapers to the streetlamps down into my slick grey coiling guts. These dead decaying leaves and poetries of white pain no longer tug vigorously at the tender meat of my tongue. The clock strikes the witching hour; the bridge gives way to the lorry.

And when the air runs out
And the bone marrow goes missing
Where the rain falls
You’ll be there
Reticent and grey
While you trace shapes in the snow.

Once again I’ve slept through red nights of abject terror where the trees of my neuron forest threaten to thrash back and forth in raven winds of agony. I’ve spent countless hours in my muddy holding cell, where my greying yellow flesh sobs for crimes it did not commit. Fuckface Clockwork howls on trembling prose and limpid form as he falls down from the garrulous watchtower, screaming and pissing into the perennial flow of oblivion mirrors. Death-dealers and interlopers tread tentatively into the throbbing thicket of incandescent lights, scraping up the remains of perpetually confused cerebral stockbrokers. They covertly slip forward, digging up my freshly-planted daisies and breeding brain-matter blackheads. Bombastic word vomit redolent of curdled milk erupts from shrieking, gaping maws. For the sixty-fifth time I am promptly evicted from your tranquil city. So long, Panopticon Prudence.

So when the air runs out
And the bone marrow goes missing
Where the rain falls
And the blood flows free
When the tears flow
And the limbs hold no weight
You’ll be there
You’ll be there
You’ll still be there
Reticent and grey
While you trace shapes in the snow."