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Karl Ruprecht Kroenen
Everything goes to hell...
...anyway!
today ... 
11th-Oct-2011 11:31 am
Top of the morning ... On my way to my robotic routine ... with you in mind ...
and the soundtrack of my life ..
.



Who's in Charge Here? (Beneath the Triumph of Shadows)

Who's in charge here? (Beneath the triumph of shadows)
Old ass monkeys swivel in the discuss/fiscuss lovers yahtzee style
Circle of viral disease spent in whirlpools of light hatred, beginnings of the new world...
"Jimmy trick," the space captain moaned from beneath the cosmic red rays of
radioactive dead curl "You make my heart sing"
A homosexual antibiotic for no sex in venereal hallway sleaze
Cross its path if you must return head-burn,
seperate the vile scent from a misspent youth uncouth elders sent these children to their demise
unrecognizable limbs sway in palm shadow
Rigorous waves that I ride on, endless (so it seems), corrupt crawl, withdrawal -
bent on trembling knee prayers thrust up, thrown to sky
Eyes torn out and tattered rags of emotion
Devotion often squandered on a heap of melting flesh, mesh teeth, howl aloud -
"Forget me not, forget me not"
Recognition blurs and spurs me on to further acts of degradation
No boundaries, no limits, no space beyond acceptance of the mass genocide to come
Squealing for a fat tomorrow (never known)
A quick infliction and the last convulsions of life into death begin
and while you may think it morbid, the reality will not hide repulsion
It breeds like a plague-ridden flea from carcass to carcass
Door to door parasite, sign your name to the list of those dying
Get a hold, grip tender with your organ...
Sugar sex on a bed of holy whoredom
There is no bill of sale with this love
Let it all be known.
And in false dedication, I defile all before me
Medicate the shell of a body you thought was alive
Hobby-horse goat...gloating/bloated
Candy cotton's spun its web of sickening, sticky rush around you - nothing as it seems
Apocalyptic memory soon come true
Riding the pale horse which taunts you, haunts you with its wholesome/precome illusion
Suck you fuck, and suck until I cum
What might it entail to flaunt you as the hustler you've become?
Hole in the head, dreading the next image
A haystack needle mile, descending mend-tack pile o'skin and we cannot escape the inescapable
How could they?




Rozz Williams




Alexandra N.S the goth years
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