Razorblades on the Internet

Four men enter – they're here to save the world
with fire and ash, suburbia comes crashing down -
so close your eyes and pretend the acid
rain will eat away at the destruction and fear,
pockmarking your senseless flesh in a sick display
of protest. Everyone is dressed like a love affair,
evening suits and stark despair awash in shades of
grey – there is no love when you're near the sea.
The sun scalds the tarmac, but struggles to break through
the steam; like a poet needs structure and rhyme
to convey the weight of the world in ink and ash.
The power of forgetfulness, watching the clouds and smog
as we waste away; just skin and bones on a mattress
on the floor. Take a razor to your arm, just to test
that your heart still works – you can't be heartbroken
until the beating stops – but the blade remains silver, and
scars refuse to form; an tragedy in one long sentence.
Do you feel alive when you spew your lungs onto the dancefloor?
It's second nature to blame it on the poison, or hold it back,
just because you've got nothing to show. Flames and radios,
we make a scene, we make a kill, the night spins on.
Watching pins and razorblades on the internet – a world of
self-destruction, but some say it's more productive than if they
were to die...