The Tip Of My Pistol Is Smeared With Lipstick

The revolution was dead before you set foot out of suburbia. They manufactured suffering and you bought it with a forced frown. Flash binary tears for the audience of owls perched on fine wooden desks. They can't differentiate between punctured flesh and pirated witchcraft. You've written doctrines in butchered English and abbreviated feeling. I've flirted with dumpsters and shook hands with skeletons. Others have famished in the stomachs of cities and riddled family photographs with bullets. Wail about paternity while tainted babies sleep in abandoned forts. Sympathy has been drained from the world and placed in the pool outside your home. This whole malady is a fad. Kill yourself.