a screaming discontent against all things real.

I drag behind a heavy iron sword
and in a warm wet bloodied hand
then I bury it deep in the damp
wet sand, and I scream myself so
very hoarse As I carve a heavy line
for I long slay those who love to lie.

For there is nothing more fake than reality
nothing more drab than dry literature
Nothing more sad and contrite and contemptable than writers of dead bones of non-people
making money out of phoney non-names
then wrapping themselves in someone else's fame!
a shopped photograph here a lie column there,
a dry dirty fuck of a raw bare buck
and nothing here makes sense any more
do I sound like a dry old bore?
Perhaps I do...
perhaps I don't have a clue
for I lack an education
in anything other than starvation
But I see how repulsively fat
the liars have all become.
So take your English literature
and lube your arse very well
and fuck with it long and hard
and live in your intellectual
conservative hell!
for there is no truth in any of it
its all just a bore
I'd rather be here and so bloody and poor
than read some nonsensical
intellectual trite
who sing along
as the characters are made just right...
so here I stand so bloody and sore
my heads a mess my bodies just poor
I don't give a damn any more...
I don't give a damn any more...
where have all the stories gone?
where are all the ideas?
what is left of real imagination?
That's what fucking matters,
not some shite filled intellectual realism!
where have all the comics gone?
the books that can be sold?
there's nothing now but dry dust...
so stand here.
stand with me!
say no to the lie...