Postcard From The Verge – Theoretical Sluts

Postcard from the verge

When you claim to be my judge

You will floor my ailing defence

That will be your penance

And in turn my recompense

I am a filter-less tab

Struck against a gilded case

Lit at either end

Debased, Defaced

Stubbed-out conjoined twins

Who made the most of your Ritalin

In your sterile cesspool

Your plastic jewels

Speak of languished retinues

And what they did to you

What did they do to you?

Ameliorate my condition

Distemper my attrition

Better me wetter

Fetter my betters

A blithe ejection from

This Thatcherite Britain

This is a postcard from the verge

And you can pay the postage

A descent into my mind

A decent matter disinclined

To lick the bitters from your tongue

Clamped, encased in youth-less slime

Such a grand and vulgar temple

For such a narcissistic devil

You notarise our misplaced fame

And yet a less surprising marvel

Our raging self-disgust

Makes us first but an animal

And servant to combust

Your hateful megalomania

My mood is my weather

If I’m told to walk my clouds off

They won’t get better

Until the ray drenched cells

Illuminating jezebels

My foregone intruders

Plan my forecast

For a hundred futures

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