Gary D. Morton

Look me in the eye and tell me that you are truly happy,
Try not to smirk, as you say it under your breath:
Try to convince yourself that you are genuinely content.
You are the lonely echo in a cancer ward, hairpiece jauntily askew.
Sing yourself to sleep in the showroom, lullabies of rampant presence,
Pretend that you are fulfilled, amongst the cardboard boxes of dust,
Nap inside the oven, take your toaster for a swim,
Indiscriminately fuck plugsockets with a fork,
Crawl on your knees to a hollow martyr, screech at your savings account.
Scrape out the inside of your eyeball with a toothbrush,
Scoop out the congealed goodness inside your liver and spread it on
wholemeal toast.
We all know that you are never as good as your playacting,
As you dissolve the decaying sphincter of a disabled hobbyhorse,
Stir the remains into your morning coffee as you set fire to an orphanage,
Try to quell whispers of axes, grindstones and brakefluid.
Push a lightbulb down your throat to see if it helps you wake up,
Join the bulimics, masturbating marionnettes on a stagecoach,
Take another fucking pill, and another one until you can’t taste the sun,
Look at me in the eye and tell me that you are happy,

you lying,
caramel flavoured
cunt.

 

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