Sickness

I don't care nothin' about nothin' anymore, nomore,never, nothin' about all that burnt, blistered ground, all that blood and grime and gore, everywhere, always and forever, just at the threshold of only, or at the constant, collective, corrective decisions of fools, sterile with numbers and diagrams, vomiting slapstick madcap derision about the end of time, or forcing breezy crooked smiles, shinin' hard like rainbows, collapsed, compressed, and singin'; I'd as soon, as fast, as real, as alone and above, giggle like the wind, google, dance about in a secret language, unburied again like long lost bones, weathered and severe, in scorn and guffaw and lunatic leanings, than side with the black, bitter memories of ashes and golden sunlight, lush with color and the sound of children, or the 'in your face' reality of shrugs or handshakes, the pallor of wolves, ghostly and shaking with pent up venom and rage; They burned the world and we watched and cheered,.. ..or, you did, 'cause I was crazy with weakness or love or trust, a furtive combination of impotence... While they were burnin', I was yearnin', we were all yearnin' for ice cream or the soft touch of youth and lust; It was nice to have love on our side when the sickness set in, wide-eyed, dumbfounding, and daring, baring teeth like razors and white porcelain, like clean dry skin; The blood soaked in 'til we were all crazy or tired or dead, our screams turned to laughter, have turned once again to screams, but low, though, among embarassed whispers and fearfully impulsive glances toward an unsure limelight of professed nurturing and need; Well, I'm sick of it all, I'm gonna lie down and make love and forget behind clouds of cum and opium, lie awake, dreamily awaiting the void of a million tomorrows, cryin' into the soft folds of sweet flesh that tastes as good dead as it does alive.