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Description
His heroin-addict chic had obviously impressed the ladies as they swarmed all over his emancipated body, which was, in itself, totally defaced and defiled. Cigarette burns swam up and down his arms as if his skin was liquid, and the scarring burns were enthusiastic swimmers, working hard to shape their bodies into how adverts on subway trains tell them is right to.

His bright blue eyes were contained in hollow sunken slots, blue and black from where the capillaries were damaged allowing deoxygenated blood to seep into the tissues. Small cuts adorned his face like pretty little spider-webs that maids and mothers sometimes miss in their usually immaculate cleaning job. Like anything, beauty doesn’t last forever, unless of course you look for beauty in horrible untouched places, but for a little while these pretty little “spider webs” were forgotten, and left, unmarked and unharmed.

More often than not, what humans mistake for beauty is just a time bomb of human hormones, building up and exploding in mass chimerical amount of bated breath and wasted words used on their objects of lust and heavy breathing.

And all of this… lust was being wasted on this body of broken bones and unshed tears. His music was his expression, and his expression was forever one of smug, sarcastic indifference, apathetic to everything but rock and roll excess.

It was time. He shrugged of the groupies. They themselves were pathetic, lifeless and entirely devoid of sex appeal themselves.

He took to the stage slowly, followed by the eyes of hundreds of speed freaks, unable to sleep, not because of insomnia but because of the drugs that were ripping them apart from the inside out. They felt strong though. It gave them more time to drink. More time to worship the bag of human organs stood as strong and as powerful as he could in front of them.

The guitarist played the first two opening chords of their signature song, the drummer hit the snare, then the bass drum once, and then the snare twice and then the bass drum twice. The bassist slid in signaling the beginning of the song, but forever was the attention centered on the hollowed out excuse for a man taking center stage.

The harsh screamed vocals then took control of everyone’s ears. The kids near the front of the stage exploded into the weird pogo style dance, and the older fans stood near the back looking wide-awake and paranoid. Blood shed by the end of the night wouldn’t really anyone’s business other than the person who shed the blood and who had their blood extracted out of their body and spilt over the beer stained concrete floor. It was the norm.

Some who weren’t fighting or slam dancing were violently groping partners who they had just recently met once they had entered the door.

The show was seventy minutes of teen angst and personal politics. It was seventy minutes of violence and anger. It was seventy minutes of estrogen and the celebration of sexuality and humanity.

This was the beauty of punk.

Everything has two faces.

Nothing is beautiful.

The show had ended just over an hour ago, and he was in the battered car taking them to the motel in town where the band would be staying until they hit the road once again the next day. Soon he was standing in front of his room, which he was sharing with the guitarist. The rest of the band were out partying with the fans that they met at the show.

He entered and set up what he needed for the night. Once he was ready he allowed the needle to enter his skin and inject the drug into his body and activated the endorphins, which killed all pain and feeling. Slowly everything died and faded around him and it was only he left. Then he left the world, leaving only a legacy of angst, violence, anger, sex and most importantly understanding.

But all beauty dies. And most beauty is only a short burst of estrogen and low stamina.

Description
His heroin-addict chic had obviously impressed the ladies as they swarmed all over his emancipated body, which was, in itself, totally defaced and defiled. Cigarette burns swam up and down his arms as if his skin was liquid, and the scarring burns were enthusiastic swimmers, working hard to shape their bodies into how adverts on subway trains tell them is right to.

His bright blue eyes were contained in hollow sunken slots, blue and black from where the capillaries were damaged allowing deoxygenated blood to seep into the tissues. Small cuts adorned his face like pretty little spider-webs that maids and mothers sometimes miss in their usually immaculate cleaning job. Like anything, beauty doesn’t last forever, unless of course you look for beauty in horrible untouched places, but for a little while these pretty little “spider webs” were forgotten, and left, unmarked and unharmed.

More often than not, what humans mistake for beauty is just a time bomb of human hormones, building up and exploding in mass chimerical amount of bated breath and wasted words used on their objects of lust and heavy breathing.

And all of this… lust was being wasted on this body of broken bones and unshed tears. His music was his expression, and his expression was forever one of smug, sarcastic indifference, apathetic to everything but rock and roll excess.

It was time. He shrugged of the groupies. They themselves were pathetic, lifeless and entirely devoid of sex appeal themselves.

He took to the stage slowly, followed by the eyes of hundreds of speed freaks, unable to sleep, not because of insomnia but because of the drugs that were ripping them apart from the inside out. They felt strong though. It gave them more time to drink. More time to worship the bag of human organs stood as strong and as powerful as he could in front of them.

The guitarist played the first two opening chords of their signature song, the drummer hit the snare, then the bass drum once, and then the snare twice and then the bass drum twice. The bassist slid in signaling the beginning of the song, but forever was the attention centered on the hollowed out excuse for a man taking center stage.

The harsh screamed vocals then took control of everyone’s ears. The kids near the front of the stage exploded into the weird pogo style dance, and the older fans stood near the back looking wide-awake and paranoid. Blood shed by the end of the night wouldn’t really anyone’s business other than the person who shed the blood and who had their blood extracted out of their body and spilt over the beer stained concrete floor. It was the norm.

Some who weren’t fighting or slam dancing were violently groping partners who they had just recently met once they had entered the door.

The show was seventy minutes of teen angst and personal politics. It was seventy minutes of violence and anger. It was seventy minutes of estrogen and the celebration of sexuality and humanity.

This was the beauty of punk.

Everything has two faces.

Nothing is beautiful.

The show had ended just over an hour ago, and he was in the battered car taking them to the motel in town where the band would be staying until they hit the road once again the next day. Soon he was standing in front of his room, which he was sharing with the guitarist. The rest of the band were out partying with the fans that they met at the show.

He entered and set up what he needed for the night. Once he was ready he allowed the needle to enter his skin and inject the drug into his body and activated the endorphins, which killed all pain and feeling. Slowly everything died and faded around him and it was only he left. Then he left the world, leaving only a legacy of angst, violence, anger, sex and most importantly understanding.

But all beauty dies. And most beauty is only a short burst of estrogen and low stamina.