Hitch from Apophallacy by Bleach For The Stars

The wrinkled room sunk on a spoon
Wired walls are gristle ground apart
Tarring the hapless howl of each heartbeat
Declared impairment scarred onto folding stars.
Homeless from hope where only the dope is sweet
Flexing dementia tension like treacle strewn.
Vein drained regret grafted to shafts of cigarettes
Stale inhalation face staple pale from pins.
Wraith gaze tracing through pages of waste
Clock rotted time torn for another taste.
Black tracks tripping across scabbed skin
Lying limp dim crippled in fetters of sweat.
Pools of ridicule chemical blemish bound
Thrusting through rubbish to shred with sickle sound.

• Dark Ambient
• Experimental
• Post-Industrial
• Harwich