nik to the beat

Pumping, bleeding, breathing, pounding, footsteps mimicking what should be the racing of our hearts egged on by your fucking passive natures.
But you’ve shed our crimson skins,
reduced us crawling along abandoned streets at dusk; lipstick and beer cans, smoke and silhouettes the only company of the coming night.
The comrades of a masquerade, of gasoline trailing along discoloured curbs, and rest our heads along the plank, line up for your kick at the can.
Fingernails separating from the skin, from hands clasped in iron shackles, a monotonous routine like fucking halos, hanging over our heads as if some in incentive to believe in the proclaimed existence of a higher power, to believe in the fucking good over evil, the devilish glares and smiles of rotting flesh;
oh, the transparency of faith to which we cling,
cling to like mattresses stained with lust and greed, of money laundering, blazing in front of the television, nine bullet holes decorating the walls, only the slightest hint of slaughter, sex becoming prostitution behind what should be closed doors, but instead lay wide open, torn from their rusted hinges. Broken springs hiding beneath the fabric slick with medication, pools of sweat, rivers along the contours of our bodies, moving, halting, heating up slowing down. Don’t pretend your virgin eyes haven’t seen the tragedy of trash-piles becoming igloos of the south. Turn your backs, a blind eye for the blind, cowards of your own society; the acid rain will hunt you first, singe you with pollution courtesy of the ones you’ve neglected, despised and reprimanded – oh but only if you’d give enough of a shit to knock on our doors; but first peel back the paint. Watch for the caution tape we strung ourselves. The curtains drawn back, infected hands drag along wall-papered walls yellowed with age, of tobacco smoke and the loss of sight.
Our swigs against your uniform, your guns against our glass bottles; this river’s meant to be crossed, to define enemy lines by the railroad tracks and the dead bouquets that lay there. Unmarked graves on the side of the road, burned to ashes returning to the dust so you can wash your hands and move on. Angels can’t hear our cries, our less-than-silent pleas, gravel digging into our knees, our lips can’t find a prayer anymore. The hungry go hungrier, the dying die, the living are dead; we are all skeletons in a world that God and His Angels have forgotten to care about. You’ve taken up your post, ignoring the network of strings attached. Palms outstretch, the mark of victimization clear upon our wrists, our calloused hands. The possibility of a great meaning, existence, of a purpose to the fighting – its all in your minds. Look around! This world isn’t getting any bigger! The food can’t spread like viruses do, they don’t adhere to the snakelike borders, waiting to change direction, to screw up His plan. And there never was a God damn plan.
We’ve been left to ourselves in this shithole of a universe – we can’t even prove our worthiness of living to each other! Man to man, on-terrain combat. The air holds nothing but toxins and oxygen, ever depleting, running on a timer counting down the years, days, seconds we have left. Is that why you’ve given up?
We’ll all be nameless in Hitler’s mass graves come judgment.
But until then, we’re pumping, bleeding, breathing, pounding like mindless machines working to an end.


*****
this doesn't really make much sense on its own. but it's a rant based on the idea that the perfect world doesn't exist. our governments are knowingly passive and fail to aid those who need it most in society - those who are often frowned upon, such as addicts or criminals or even simply those struggling to provide for their families living in poverty.