Though the title and some of the language within this piece might possess some racist imagery, it is as a result of idle memories regarding an Irish Literature seminar I attended (occassionally) during university, and is not actually targeted at any skin colour of nationality.
This one’s a little obscure, a little personal, and pretty crap.
The dull flames
and lights of lust
hold few pleasures for me anymore,
as if they ever had.
I do not need you.
I will seek out my own pleasures,
I will lose myself, within myself, and
run these artist’s fingers across purpling flesh
and rigid muscle, already softening.
And Murphy says that ‘Work Will End Us!’;
a parasite, disguised,
a creature capable of thought.
The ‘negroes of Europe’,
evolved now, completely;
a strange breed here.
All ferocity and apathy;
slack-jawed incompetence and tight-lipped majesty.
He cries that ‘Work WIll End Our Love!’,
as easily as my work enables me t buy love,
or the illusion of love,
for a meal a ticket and a glass of wine.
Oh money, how I need you,
But love, I do not need,
to have my money.