No Porn for Cuties

What if I choose to live and what if I killed you, Inhumanity There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose you?... Sometimes I feel like a fucking pathologist, digging deep into the rotten ectoplasm of somebody’s soul to find out the reasons for their premature rigor mortis. Rigor mortis, you see, is the condition that describes your internal affairs after you have successfully managed to mortify every last living bit of humanity in you. As with the dead body, rigor mortis of the soul has different colourful and odorous stages. Most are irreversible, simply because people eventually get used to the smelling pile inside their chests. Whether because it is the common practice, or 'cause it is fucking easier to glide only on the surface of the skin and bone bags wriggling in the dirt instead of digging deeper, most people take the red pill and switch off their souls. Sad but true, but we are still jus...

Here I begin to fail the steps of a battle without sense I've nearly began to understand as I grown my way There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose to live? Living in a dangerous womb Its like falling every moment every stage Living in my own little world Outcoming every sequence of this dream How did this begin and turned in such inhumanity? I'm hoping for myself to escape the insanity, I'm open What if I choose to live and what if I killed you, Inhumanity There is no light out of all the places There is no sign of our help There is no time and a chance of relations What if I choose you How did this begin and turned in such inhumanity? I'm hoping for myself to escape the insanity, I'm open What if I choose to live and what if I killed you Inhumanity

One good night is more than worth the next day's hangover...

How many men have been in your sacred hole? V.A.S.T. My predicament sucks; or should I say, I suck in its stead. So here we go, says I upon my last glass for the night: I want the Duke I can’t have, I fuck the Shaman that broke my heart, and yet another, the lovely Hunter, who broke the heart of many others (I guess, it is some sort of retaliation). There is even a rhythm to it, though VAST counterfeits with some quality depression on the stereo. Ain’t that a Broadway special? This is not the end of the story, still. There is, of course, the Poet, who in his drunken nightmares sees me as a mother of his children; the Prophet, who somehow finds a place in my heart amidst his incomprehensible visions of Armageddon; the Painter, who owes me a dinner and a mural; the Psycho with the blond curls and the stone cold face, who idolizes my obscenity… My life seems to be sewn out the patches of those grim images, never lasting, ever changing and somehow constant like the abstinence of a junkie...