Duct tape.
Rope.
Pipe wrench.
Happy holidays

There will be weeping there, and gnashing of teeth
a guilty hangover prevails
and ruins another day

And now for a game of good old fascist grab ass

Floating crust of dead skin
the smell of unwashed bollox
cums out dead

Shitbone antlers and backyards littered with old human remains
Black buttons pushed into eye sockets
old rusted dogs conjure dreams of murder only to forget them by morning
the truth is relative and lies sacrosanct