Religious Acid DepositionI blaspheme to a salt Godbecause he flavours atheismand catholotism - tasteless.My rosary's been consumedby acids, but the claim's baseless.And the world grows smalleras the universe expands.God dies and is born anew.Preachers use cyanide,from poison, I will die in the pew.
The SparrowWhitherto doth flight aspireIn the rose's company unto Nordic strifeDoes a sparrow, higher alightWhen under his wings burns a viking pyre.Damnèd be the man eaten by firewhen mourned by softly blowing fifeheld aloft by those who ended his mightfortuitously among the battle's ire.Dead, jaundiced eye in sodomyFlatters the heavens with glazèd gazeWhen vitreous humour happily bubblesUnder the pearly cornea that he,Murderous, navagated life's maze.The sparrow flies, unmoved, sans trouble.Hoarding scores of scarèd boneWhich twitch in wild erratic rhythmTo dance under his mud feathers givenWith fortitude flies every meter thrown.'Neath him speaks the women in hushed toneAnd sadly they are broken within-Their souls. Hardened husk that no more is driven.Whence cynical weeds- gluttonous hath grown."Harken, attend! All thy wills be heard,Kind of the Gods- may look to thy hand-with favour. Listen- my widow's song."Her jaded countenance, towards hapless bird,
The Dying ThroneA dead man lays his head to restacross a withered wooden grainsitting royally atop his thronehead back observing his court.His wrists bestowed with leatherHis belts buckled to the tightand the tarnished silver gleamingresting snug to his cadaver.A restless maid bathes his haira sponge rests atop his wet headwhile his crown is nestled neatthe man relaxes in the bed, proper.His eager subjects gather 'round.An excited chatter and crowd circle,the man waves farewell triumphantly,a last smile: electricity applied.
The Latent AddictionThat I sit here nightlywishing for a square,a red embered testamentof addiction, the dead whole.Why I should want distastefullya compounded distraction?One that I know you would hate.Only I sit and suffer that;your ghostly imprinted hands.We are the wanting, fearfully.I dread my desire,I wish for my inadequacy,I wish to be a shadow in your light.Why do we crave being hated?How do we survive ourselves?Damnabley a fiddle wails,Wallowing in its cacophic soundThe Violinist has not his own esteem.That I sit here nightlywondering about a cigarette,something of which I swore off of,remembering the taste of unfiltered coffee.