I like the taste of death on
Sunday mornings, after the rainfall
that ruins most weekends,
where as I found myself
prancing about the premises
of prominent prudes
with welcome mats that speak of how
you were not to touch, or come within its perimeter
because after all,
are we really good enough to be there?
How my senses fall around their factory
manners and moods, oh they smell of Sunday mornings
where my hunger takes me to swallow quick as if to beg my stomach
to spit it out, spew the source of human's
cold cold existence.
Maybe god's resolution has called you out
maybe you are on your knees,
praying for miracles
or redeeming your sins
is that your innocence
to fall behind imagination...
I prefer the illness filling my lungs on months to pass
where the blood soaks in my soul
and memories purge me to puce fixations:
slicing the sickness, twisting my tongue
ripping the righteous!
it is not in me to hide myself, for even your imagination
wishes in honesty
and honestly there is no one to save you
only shadows swallowing the sky
and stars
til there is nothing
but my Sunday mornings
that fill the soul with pleading
begging eyes
for their life?
yes,
that life that files in documents
working, slaving, pretending, dominating
slaughtering..oh you damned!
I hate you like those April afternoons
pretending warmth to blow you around
with chills to kill the dreamer...
and may the Son burn you
the way I will burn you alive
just to realize there is no heaven
nor hell
only goodbye,
you cold cold existence.
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