Nothing Left

 
I'm the child with my nose pressed against the glass
without want or need, but thoughts of desire.

There's nothing for me; nothing left.
Every flavour of life layers my taste-buds
with cardboard and used air.
I used to be so alive under every tongue,
now the thought sedates my pulse.
Skin, fat, bone, clothing, shape, size and every smile
all blur into a familiar, unwanted stagnant puddle.

I see broken streets full of fractured lives
that will be reckoned on this tar;
breeding grounds for crime, madmen and whores.

There's graffiti scribbled down a building saying:
"Jesus can still save you"
but he'd only save you when you die.

Fuck contentment and the blind man's food
let me feed with the whores who're alien to orgasms,
who wake each day for hope's sake
and sleep each night in apathetic skins
because the dead are warmer when life's around
and Jesus wouldn't sleep alone
after scribbling on countless bricks,
knowing death itself is the only saviour.