My Washing Machine's Depressed 'Coz I Wear Black

My washing machine's depressed 'coz I wear black

I feel flat

my lips cracked and chapped

blurt crap like I'm on crack

making everybody crack up and start clapping and shit

but

I don't feel like speaking

I feel like screaming and squealing

'til all I can do is squeak and I'm coughing and wheezing

sneezing and feeling defeated beaten

jesus,

this boy can talk shit

it's like he thinks he's been cheated by life

like his feet ache from lugging his baggage and features around

like a small and fuzzy featureless creature who cheats at battle-chess

and sneaks in random fags

these words taste like having a shit sandwich

and eating it

like eating a whore out

then stealing her cigarettes

it's like picking a fight with Andrew fucking Mehrtens

at an All Blacks test match in Baghdad

The shit just doesn't make any sense

being a smart-ass in the present tense

I feel tense about the number of rent checks

that I've raised and gifted

compared to the value of the shit that I've lifted

the shit that's been gifted by karma

and fate helps me pay for

like a cheap whore

I love that word -

Whore

it sounds like a nice heavy smoke - stop - door

sliding closed over a dusty concrete floor

onomatopoeia and synaesthesia

like an orgy

a wild party characterized by sexual promiscuity

drunken revelry and sibling rivalry

in the sickest sense

I'm the slickest

these rhymes eat chef-aid sandwiches for breakfast

anyone who can say sandwich three times

in a rhyme as sick as this

is a fucking genius

alcohol was a factor

and responsibility for the bombing has been claimed by al kaeda

sinister business

flawless and sinless

sharing secrets and un-known features

of magic tricks

convincing people I'm a purist

the purest epitome of giving

coming across quite different to someone who's winning

grinning through gritted teeth that have been ground down

by crisis, grief, grime, crime, time, demons and mis-placed belief

but with Mastercard, it's been priceless

look at the tiny human lice and their crazy devices

trying to achieve release without speaking

and gain a deeper understanding at I-Max

Fucking Slackers

what's wrong with you sneaky little freaks?

you're weak

too soft to deal with the reality of synergistic co-existence

I take drugs to win

I drink to prove what a mess I'm in

I stink of smoke puke and squid ink

have you ever smelt squid ink?

it stinks worse than a cat's piss

so smear snails on your face to save grace as you gracelessly age less

when I pass you, I have become virtually faceless

I'm nameless

no presence

no character

and no discernable essence

I am simply a personified manifestation of your own most feared fantasy

I am your conceptual psychosis

a ghost of your super-ego

and all you can come up with is this?

go figure

words of an aetheist preacher

a blind teacher