Half focused on the blowflies as they flash by.
A few choice sites to survey before settling
on the eyes.
Foisting the squirm anywhere that stinks
inviting.
Welcomed with maggotblown arms to foist
almighty. Shit begat shit.
The enshitenment. Shy away from the lightning.
Fumble screwing another struggling bulb into
an earth long since unyielding.
Power saved by never insisting.
Power saved by never insisting.
Descended like the fair essence of filth on a
foul wind, they did.
Infantilised those fertile minds, they did.
Holy guardian angels, they were.
But we dig that hole, not that one.
Yes that one, too.
No, no, not that one.
(holy guardian angels) (advanced fail state)
It's the pits.
It's The Pit for us all.
All just a'squirm eternal spinning sulphuric
drain daze.
Pay as you go, my boys. Pay as you go.
Rest assured, you will pay.
My colleagues amongst the carrion aficionados
rock on their pointed heels, poking fun with
horn'ed toes.

Cracked by lazy mirth.
Dead eyes seeking the weak spot.
Pointers ignoring the code.
Minds so open they've emptied with only the
bare minimum of prompting.
Two plus two equals five, my boys. All is as it
ever was.

I see beasts on the periphery. I don't know if
they will eat me.
Maybe I'll eat them?
They grin bathed in half-arsed light. Yellowed
teeth as medals struck off in fool's gold.
Padding around the lucky one, their strength
in creeping numbers.

All part of the fun, the dice roll, the who
on earth gives a fifth of a fifth of a fuck.
Many spasms to this dance. Involuntary
contrary twitch show.
The network of ruins are many and varied.
Hurriedly shovelled into this carpet bombed,
carpet bagged facade.
Urinal songs urge the failures on.
Cakes for everyone. All toasting hell.

All a waste of timing.
Relative as irrelevant.
All a waste of timing.
For time all out of time.
All out of time.

I see beasts on the periphery. I don't know if
they will dance with me.
Maybe I'll run rings around them?
They grin bathed in half-arsed light. Eyes
down for a full pit.
Each descent grows colder. Padding around the
lucky one, their strength in creeping numbers.
Cunting on down, down these rivers of constant
strange.

Whilst mishandling my own back, insinuating
myself somewhat unwillingly between here and
there, the pavement tipped a wink and rose up
to meet me.
Eyes down for a dead house.
More's the lack of pity that the mausoleum
wasn't in the least surprised.
We were welcomed by an apathetic maw, my not
me, my not myself and my not ever I.

We inspected the gape behind the belching veil
As all good children must.
Assessed the plan for concrete.
Became the aggregate.
Street level vertigo. Go. Go. Go.
Even our fossil records were shit.
All filler, no killer.
A pauper's grave will do, I'm told.
No pit to speak of.