Proboscis Master Versus The Powdered Seraphs Pawn on the Universal Chessboard
Face down in the dust of their blasted utopia
razors scrape obtuse angels into manageable lines
eyes brimming with chemical repulse
nostrils crusted with manifold millennia of dried up mortification
...of spiritual fabrication.
inhaling the future, new orifices torn for those sexless angels.
Strength of Will hammered flat by biological circumstance
cells forming the biggest cell of all;
body of death, true burden.
My opiate naïve autumn putting a gleam to your sycophant summer like
so much make believe
Throw in your hands for the abyssal disco.
All the right shapes chucked into all the wrong holes.
All's about to snap / spring has sprung on the christ trap.
In fact, we'll do worse than put a match to your faces.
We'll have your writhing, you cunts. Do you hear?
All you monotheists born from the dust of deserts.
Myth piled upon myth / spiritual plague pit.
Seething maggot balls / fuel for future tombs
Twisting mass a'roil with turning worms.
Keep your maggots away from my soul.
I'm willing to risk an aneurysm if you'll just shut up and wait in line.
Just impulses piloting corpses through mistake upon farce;
Glance around for the shroud. How's your fitting? Dancer with ghosts.
Spinning so madly around.
Dancer with ghosts. Spinning so madly around.
Down amongst the dead.
All our graves walked all over.