1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…All Good Children Go To Heaven
We dreamt of a dragon fucking us.
She sang Elvis songs,
I wore a Marilyn Monroe mask whilst
Shooting shadows into stagnant vein
Of a pulpy nothing.
Charlie Manson on the TV;
He is no longer flesh,
No longer a nightmare.
I ripped her panties off with a naked blade,
We wrote love letters to death in blood
On the bed sheets;
Eroticised by such absurdity.
35mm orgy abuse for the famous meat –
Give birth to revolver.
Shoot. Smile. Bleed. Cry. Fuck. Die.
Her sex kills me like an outlaw
But we love it like Christ.
Anti-Depressant Cinephile Gunman
B-movie dildo abuser,
Snuff superstar intro;
Let’s relieve ourselves.
Praise the violence on screen,
Denounce the brutalism off-screen.
The villain on the camera is perfect.
The gunman, all too human is the error
Because we don’t want to be victims.
We see the auditorium butchery,
Thus vomiting of the ‘real’ –
Juxtaposed with the embrace of the reel.
Target practice – target audience.
XXX theatre of wounds,
A sell out crowd
Singing Shakespearean death quotes
In the viscera of celluloid tombs.
Such a performance will not be welcomed on a red carpet
But it will make the cover of magazines
Because it’s another screen,
A new fiction – a modern obscene.
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