you're a beautiful thing

melodyne mixing clips of crown court,
lost in non-Euclidean geometrical
cross-hatching
of a dark little city,
I type vicious
while they laugh about someone called, like, Johnny and say:
"being confident, sexy and well-dressed doesn't mean I lack emotional depth", but
we go:
"kill your darlings, dangerous men will hurt you",
and the Lord's Resistance Army can kidnap
the French ambassador's lovely daughter because
the most awful bastard in the world cuts out coupons
to save a few pence
on his favourite mayonnaise, or else
always keeps his tidy slippers in the same snug place;

hell is still empty,
all the devils are here,
billions of bilious blue blistering
blank screen generation are like:
"I cant live here. I hate you."

so tell them:
"Take the Voight-Kampff test because
no one believes you're real,"
and sing:
"with a taste of a poison paradise,
I'm addicted to you,
don't you know that you're toxic."