Too Late for Compassion
Things go better with coke. The pause that refreshes. Slogans and flat-out lies, sanctioned and accepted, consecrated, the one true god.
I’m here to make a clean slate of things, and to do that you need an eraser. A forgetter. A spade to dig a deep hole to shovel the whole gory mess into – a past full of slogans and cover-ups; twisted dreams bordering on nightmare and cruelty in a pinafore. Your small part in the gigantic undertaking, the mud mountain of deception.
Iron-clad certainty, the queen bee of deception. Sex passed off as love. Ambition as concern. Manipulation as generosity. Then more sex, but unadorned now, stone-hard betrayal and icy indifference. It begins.
Your original face starts to surface, rashed with black memories. Your body goes shapeless and no one pays you attention. Not that they ever did – that was a deception, your excuse to grab at things.
Wait now! That’s not you! That’s the other fellow who you’ve got nothing but scorn for. And he thinks the same about you once his eyes fail and his teeth rot.
You’re all in this together, but it’s too late now for compassion.