The Book of Lives

Lives unfold like a book, this should be no surprise,
We’ve all got shit up our arses and tears in our eyes;
Yes, we’re nothing but bags of pulsating offal,
For the world starts and ends as a rotting meat-brothel.

The first level of liars are those persons whose claims
Show they speak from their hearts and not out of their brains;
The worst kind of traitor’s the lover who pleads
That great trees of trust must branch out from good seeds.

Old mirrors reflect my face misted and faded,
But not what’s behind – a soul twisted and jaded;
Once more, eyes seek hope in that last line of verse:
Forever, for never, for better or worse.

Just like you, I’ve tried to believe life’s what you make it,
Unlike you, to feel this I fucking well fake it;
I have tried so damn hard to find those golden doors,
All I’ve reached is this endpoint: we’re all pitiful whores.

Our world is a Hell with a thin coat of Heaven,
And the number which follows six-one-six is black-seven;
You may read all these words if they give you no trouble,
But you’ll soon forget them if they burst your sweet bubble.

Like cakes, words have layers – of meaning, not fruit:
You should always judge cards by both number and suit;
The secret lies here, climax-lush, just like sex:
The last line lays it clear : X X X X X X