The world is just knives and stones
forged by vengeful
bitter gods
we wander through stillborn days
tongues coated with
the metallic taste of despair
addled with loneliness
all the pretty suicides
smile sadly from every corner
beckoning with skinny fingers
as the afternoon teeters
and falls off its stool
any meaning you might
try and pin to it all
fades and tears like old handbills
from Market Street lamp posts
and all that remains
is whatever stares back at you
from spittle stained windows
your wounded animal self
naked and ashamed
uglier even than your dreams.
Your closing reminds me of some of the animalistic nudes Egon Schiele used to paint: http://www.egon-schiele.net/.
Nice one.
Indeed…
O I do love me some Egon Schiele.