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More Distortion

This is Grunge.

This is Gehenna.

This is downtown at 2:45am investigating every ashtray.

Lost explosive, too many bad ideas and too much cheap whisky to drink.

Fragile white nose sniffs my naked cards,

Nods out to Lou Reed in the gutter and makes crude toasts to the stars.

The great divide gets greater, ink washes off,

The roadmap is ignited for a few seconds of warmth.

Piles of pictures burn holes in iron clad pill cases.

Psychoanalysis forces out visions of involuntary voices,

Breaks the barriers of memory,

When black was born and colour hid away.

This is life in its most pleasing form,

Dancing barefoot in the grass, amongst jagged shards of the One Love.

Circuits switch and snap with talk of flying and running away.

Prisms reflect the sun and give the moon secrets of divine inspiration.

Perfection is the beauty of no more buildings to burn down,

Walking in half remembered fields and exploring elusive ice caverns.

Spring is banished underground.

Can you still hear it screaming?

Now they teach to bow and fear,

To sacrifice the thoughts we think to the monsters in the mirror.

Ice blue pinprick pupils, tiny portholes into the abyss.

This Morphine Angel is the, river, the bedroom, the road.

He snorts away his ennui and cries “Hail Eve!” to his empty glass phial.

Solid, captured, horny as hell and never been touched by love.

Coming down but it won’t be the last stop.

Forgetting the bottom and rejecting the top.

Locked doors and white washed windows stretch the dream until it snaps.

This is Gehenna.

This is Grunge.

This is a goddamn good time.

Jack Blare

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