he died of excessive money
just losing all my friends,
vocal chords are strung out
as if every whisper from your mouth
is a burning bridge
to my subconscious;
condemned for murdering my ego,
and everybody else shackled to it.
the devil has the virtue of patience,
steadily waiting, on the other end
of the batphone;
whilst God has taken LSD,
how ignorance is bliss.
that the bladder couldn't handle,
Jesus Christ, she has a pretty face
but she makes me want to rinse
my eyes with acid,
flaccid psychological balance,
the colours are divergent
through these slits of shattered glass.
vomiting my brain out
on the sink, on the pavement,
could you pick it up for me, please ?
sleeping on a bed of addiction,
the inclination has failed the degausser,
and hence, the remnants hurt my head,
the money would surely make my bed,
but who would be sleeping next to me ?
(well, Ben Franklin
we love you so much,
but do me a favour
and don't reply;
because I can dish it out,
but I can't take it).