Kill all angels

Ima­gin­a­tion is a whore. A filthy yet fickle whore. Comes to me and for me, spread-eagled and pout­ing, offer­ing up everything on a wooden plat­ter. Then she with­draws, closes up and turns away. A frost des­cends. She’s ice cold, white and drained.

yes i know you want fuck­ing angels and more fuck­ing angels and all i want to give you are fucked angels and angels fuck­ing each other bru­tally and breath­lessly and heart­lessly and oh my despic­able god he’s not listen­ing yes fucked-up angels with slashed wings and bloody pray­ing hands turned into grasp­ing claw­ing talons

Ima­gin­a­tion wants you to fire her up on an oft-burned spoon. She wants to bubble and fizz for you, waft­ing across your senses before you shoot her up into your veins. Bliss. Then she wants to leave you cold, shud­der­ing, shiv­er­ing, drib­bling like a blither­ing babe, newly sprung.

oh go on please tell me about the silken angels the singing angels the silent angels the angels that pray over your soul that stand guard over you on rooftops until day­light dawns and des­pair dis­solves and shout hosan­nas over your saved soul and every scath­ing stroke you scratch across the paper cuts and ribbons

Ima­gin­a­tion is drunk and deadly. Pissed and deli­ri­ous. She sits by the side of the cold enamel evac­u­ation tube and tries not to puke into God’s ear. But everything’s swim­ming, and she’s gurg­ling. She is never drink­ing again, swear­ing as she explodes into an acidic wash.

you don’t talk about angels any more you don’t why don’t you talk about angels any more why don’t you why won’t you talk about us any more you are we dead are we dead are we as dead as dead can be leave us here float­ing on street corners and in gut­ters and beaten up in alleys and pissed on by leer­ing lads and with our heads beaten against the broken brick­work by roam­ing gangs and assaul­ted verbally and bod­ily and intim­ately in cel­lars but why god­damn you why

Ima­gin­a­tion has been fucked sense­less and drugged sense­less. She’s drunk her­self hori­zontal and had the shit beaten out of her until comatose. She feels glor­i­ous and glam­or­ous, vacu­ous and viol­ated. Ima­gin­a­tion knows it’s wrong, but she found her­self in the pulsat­ing heart that she now squeezes to pulp between her fin­gers. Ima­gin­a­tion seeps into the white. She goes. And she’s gone.