You can't go back.

The shattered muses of who I was recline in their grand lack of minutes and laugh oh they cackle at me in crackle-glass titters, throwing their heads back and grating
-Oh but you feel so good, so good.

You cannot go forward, my inner friend. They cannot go back.
But here is a massacre, the interrupted riff that splits up my ribs and bleeds out the heart of me. Do you recall the sweet blade, the merciful swell of blood BLOOD on your cheeks. Is it not words, is it not expression, the spindly branches of red slipping and slurring across my face
-Oh but it feels so good, so good.

I laugh at stainéd memory,
For I cannot cannot go back, must not will of course go back. I do not hope to turn again, but I am sure that while my veins scream and pine and die and force the sap from their yellowing tubes. Come to me, keen catharsis, give me a cylinder for my thoughts, a brassy one like a band or a false voice that rocks out tittering memory that squeals, like rats and women
-Oh but it feels so good, so good.

You can't go back.
You cannot come back.

There is no song between blood and death, only an ungentle silence that cracks grins into
-Oh but it feels so good, so good.
You can't come back.