I find myself becoming hostile.
Intolerant of experience.
Of existence itself.
I am drifting away from my humanity.
Smells are caustic.
Colour burns my eye.
I balk under touch.
Stimulus is an irritation.
It unsettles my skin.
I can taste the flesh of others as it comes through the air.
My throat knots.
And my stomach is turned.
I am drawn to extremity.
I become disinterested in matter.
A sexless thing.
Aroused only by fetish.
The aesthetic of corruption.
No flesh.
No act.
It is a chemical discharge.
I am sickened by the remnant of my desire.
As I observe, with pity, the desire of others.
The sounds of laughter.
And joy and love and contentment.
Are like insect bites.
Lesions which are taking longer and longer to heal.
I fantasize about acts of terrifying violence.
But I find peace in this atrocity.
Some humour, even.
Rent limbs.
Torn hair.
Faces obliterated and unrecognizable.
These are the only things.
Which capture my fascination.
A heart I felt.
Rotting and palsied in my chest.
Once more courses with bright, fresh blood.
It robs me of breath.
In that moment, so like death.
I see a sun rising behind a pile of charred bones.
And I cannot stop laughing.
So sing me to sleep.
Once upon a time in the west.
Those tears shed for beauty.
Are the only ones I have left.
God's Only Toys 