No God Damn Taste

Where's the god damn taste gone.
Even though it could only be
the sentimental prick
who would claim of its existence.

I read names strewn on these white walls
and they make even my gut cringe.
These names painting pictures
of useless children dragged in to it
in some useless hope of dying their wool white
and trotting along to the feeders
before their throats a slit
by something like this.

The television is on in the other room.
I hear it draining those around it.
Like the firework display
on a cold November night
that doesn't feel like a waste of time
and comfort to anyone around.

Dropped jaws and toffee apples.
Tired eyes and a little excess weight above the legs.
Seared eardrums and a £90 haircut.

The sheep don't even wear jester's hats.
They don't laugh at themselves.

I smile when I cry,
each tear reflecting survival
-wanted or otherwise.

This is all a far too serious bath
with a rich man's feces
floating at the surface,
but instead of laughing
towards the particles seeping
in to pores more wanting
than an elderly whore
on her deathbed.

The laughing comes from something
else.
Something that worries me.
Something I no longer speak about.

Everything is something
-so they say-
but hardly any of it
is anything.