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He laughs and the devils smile. Tripping over the trailing gowns of their self appointed authority, The mediocre mainstream flow along their daily lives like the millions of amoeba they are. Somewhere, a God blinks and misses their lifetime. "But we try so hard!" the toothless gutter generation plead, as they're stripped of their gumballs and cotton candy. Slithering about their virtual existence on bleeding stomachs, professionally kissing the feet of men who kiss feet professionally: their muted cries send the gold babies to sleep. The Saviour blankets his unworthy followers in boredom's yawn, and rests his weary feet on their tension ridden shoulders. * * * * * * * Stain. An imperfection on a bloodied lie: Why am I here without purpose when the wretches would take my place? He enters via my eyes and cackles whole heartedly within me, until my ribs rattle painfully. My master keeps me fragile. A finger on my cracked lips confirms all the prophecies: eyes lie, I lie, the boys with their glitter judge me harshly. No room for simplicity around the stain. Pennyman sweeps past reality; brick road of gold at his toes helps him dance all the more perfectly away. My toes bury themselves in the dirt and curl in furied shame. The sun may fade, the world may die, but the stain will always be; passed on like some vile disease, spreading like an epidemic to all the sugar hearted children with melancholy frosted eyes. Apathy becomes the child with broken nails: swollen cheeks and sagging heart weighting her to this foul existance. Do you see her? In the shattered mirror? In your blistered hands? In your immoral thoughts? She'll brush the hair from your bleeding eyes and kiss you gently on the forehead, before offering you a handful of what's to come. The afterlife awaits. Stain. nosferata, 1997
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