my urethra spontaneously combusted from the absolute heat what the fuh

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Man Of The Year

I WANTED YOU TO FEEL IT

September

A year from now, everything your stressing about won't mean a thing. The things that feel heavy right now, they'll all fade into lessons. You've survived every hard day so far, and this is no different. 

A Year From Now

Scalpel-etched lamplight on the butchered dawn
Streets cough steam where the wounds are drawn
Organs strewn like verdicts in a gutter of bone
Bond writes calmly with a violence unknown

Ink drips thick through the rancid air
Logic carving through the human despair

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Thorax opened like a sermon of gore
Viscera missing—he marks which, and more
Rib-frames cracked in a disciplined cut
Pattern of the blade in the alleys of rot

Breath of the corpse fog curls on the street
Bond finds order in the butcher’s deceit

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Sequential mutilation in anatomical script
Signature frenzy in the tissues ripped
From Buck’s Row alleys to Miller’s grime
Bond hunts motive in the marrow of crime

Blood-ink logic in a lantern glare
Mapping madness with a surgeon’s stare

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

Steel through sinew, pattern revealed
Pathology whispers what slaughter concealed
Reason cuts deeper than the murderer’s art
Bond dissects the night for its cannibal heart

Ink and entrails speak the same tone
Truth coagulates on the cobblestone

Whitechapel screams in the surgeon’s prose
Lacerations bloom where the shadow goes
Eviscerate the night with a methodical hand
Thomas Bond stalks on in a blood-stained land

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