There is no joy anymore in riding life like a bullet- 

One fuck up away from a cheap room and an even cheaper view. 

The body, 

Ill-equipped to deal with the minds immortality 

Descends into self- mutilation 

And the occasional self-induced climax. 

Fast food takes precedence  

Over fast cars and even faster women 

As the reflection in the bathroom mirror tells the brain: 

‘kill the body and the head will follow’. 

And still you wonder what came first, 

The narcotic or the neurotic? 

It’s a question no bastard should ask his bastard son. 

And still the war goes on 

A rage that makes a mockery of the moon. 

Perhaps the Gods will allow a visit? 

But for a flat Earther 

Even the Gods would turn Atheist at that one.