Love Lullaby
8/27/2025
Candle is not too hot to handle,
We shove it up our asses in the guest room.
Then we fan the flames of love lullaby,
On shrooms as the shimmering shadows loom.
We think rose is clever too,
Not in the silky drama of the dream petal.
The silly thorn can be used to easily kill,
The red is then not always that fundamental.
Love's suspense might kill a man,
But a man who's long dead it can't.
Or coy cunts in Calcutta in dingy droves,
Whores fond of dicks who're only cant.
But I'm happily married with my hand,
Yes ma'am, thank you for asking.
It's erection at first friction, you see,
A north Calcutta fuck-face gasping.
Jism or jizz trickles like ants in my pants,
The sperms far too few to count.
My dynasty of fucks dries in the crotch,
Assimilated, too abhorrent by any account.
One self-handfuck a week, or is it a month?
4K, 5 dicks in one ass isn't enough.
Plots in reality like porn are thin,
But real human connections are bluff.
But we men are born blind to inner beauty,
We dumb fucks look for the surface pretty.
By all the holes in holy, pretty is cunt,
But ugly is not cent percent not-shitty.
So I skip cunts and fucking now,
Practice dying alone when you have to.
I just want you to know who I really am,
So how's it hanging and fuck you too.
It's tonic and gin and never a win,
The broth of brooding in a Calcutta bar.
Yes, I want to but I can't sing my songs,
Never learned how to sing with the guitar.
The voice is now moot, full of soot,
I have a frown and I am out of town.
The bipolar sine waves squish me to weird,
I bob up and down, rapidly, up then down.
The guitar is neglected, hurt feelings,
Secrets in the strummed chords I try to toy.
Humming miseries suspect advancing age,
In my childhood's oxymoron—a city of joy.
Too many faces, too many masks,
The shape of people's hearts like dildo.
Shadows stranger than hauntings in hell,
Bamboozling city of pimps and hoe.
I keep the pictures of the memories,
I can't forget, they hurt too much.
Mixed with the bitter Calcutta beer,
The general putrefaction in a bar lunch.
The city scruples like piss stains,
On walls or raining on your hair.
People at the helm are ALL exactly,
Like the plump city feces everywhere.
It's ruin it's rain we race to run,
But in circles we go round, and round.
Most people are dead inside, dead numb,
Shitting corpses piss zombies abound.
Heartburn and acid baptisms reek rancid,
The scabs and stabs in the pains of gain.
Motley melancholy of colors in my tears,
The wet august sun in the Calcutta rain.
A headache is what I have, is what I like,
A depression is what I really know is me.
Going mad the rut deep down, a broken man,
Splattered across the wall for all to see.