Suicide Circus Berlin

I’m chain smoking in a House club.

I want it to mean something.

They want it to mean something;

Christ we are all just terrified.

It’s all about the wet hot fucking of it all

and we’ll mostly get fat and old.

Some will fall into death but least of all,

It will do for now.

I want to opt-out of life.

Death or solitude will do.

But I like life

when I’m drunk. It happens too much.

Shit shitty shit-filled life.

I’m consoled that as hard as things are

(thinking and caring and such)

there always seems to be a pocket of love somewhere

It’s a crowded bar and I’m very sorry for all the people whose lives mean nothing.

Whose conversions and excitement and passion means nothing.

Oh fuck, we’re alone.

What is it about the smoke on the beer on the concrete on the BO

that makes you feel some kind of alive or love?

Probably the youth lying there.

Time and your own ego saying hello?

I don’t know.

More bastards of the new generation tap toes to the same lies.

Sweet Christ are we doomed.

I drank, I smoked, and I danced,

and, well shit, wasn’t it all about the pussy?

Maybe in the right righteousness,

it was all about exploiting the poor

for cool credentials, while the insecurely rich

waved their flaccid bits in front of mediocrity?

A shuffle of body weight here.

A whine of impatience there.

Maybe they like the sex?

Maybe they love it?

Maybe they mean it?

Maybe they like the lies they eat and the poison they drink.

In some light it’s more complex.

In some way I know I’m killing myself.


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