06-22-2012, 10:26 PM
Version 2:
Bodily I rest in Hell,
wandering these harsh terrains
accompanied by cries of pain.
Only here do I have weight,
this sodden and demented land.
My crops suckle daily on blood,
and no crevice is void of life.
The stones themselves are haunted;
each brick is a plastic cage.
Yet I am lonesome on my farms
orchestrating each harvest,
the culling and planting of souls,
with a boredom scarcely known by man.
I seek new game, my dear, and rising up through the roof
I've settled in your quaint village.
I looked over your shoulder as you chose CDs,
your thin white fingers stroking the case
of an album depicting my face.
Your hair was long and innocent,
my breath disturbed it like the wind
in a monastery garden, rich with what's alive.
I was there when your neighbour buggered his wife;
they grunted like my pigs when fed
the fingers of your darling kind, who can only scream.
I tapped on the windows of this very church,
and you thought I was just a dream,
lingering there on the old preacher's tongue,
when to an ageless God he sung.
Your music is wind in the caves of Hell,
your stadiums are my churches,
and all the faggotry of men, whose burning bright hair
resemble my flames, will doom you as well.
Version 1:
I looked over your shoulder as you chose CDs,
your thin white fingers stroking the case
of an album depicting my face.
Your hair was long and innocent,
my breath disturbed it like the wind
in a monastery garden, rich with what's alive.
I was there when your neighbour buggered his wife;
they grunted like my pigs when fed
the fingers of your darling kind, who can only scream.
I tapped on the windows of this very church,
and you thought I was just a dream,
lingering there on the old preacher's tongue,
when to an ageless God he sung.
Your music is wind in the caves of Hell,
your stadiums are my churches,
and all the faggotry of men, whose burning bright hair
resemble my flames, will doom you as well.
Bodily I rest in Hell,
wandering these harsh terrains
accompanied by cries of pain.
Only here do I have weight,
this sodden and demented land.
My crops suckle daily on blood,
and no crevice is void of life.
The stones themselves are haunted;
each brick is a plastic cage.
Yet I am lonesome on my farms
orchestrating each harvest,
the culling and planting of souls,
with a boredom scarcely known by man.
I seek new game, my dear, and rising up through the roof
I've settled in your quaint village.
I looked over your shoulder as you chose CDs,
your thin white fingers stroking the case
of an album depicting my face.
Your hair was long and innocent,
my breath disturbed it like the wind
in a monastery garden, rich with what's alive.
I was there when your neighbour buggered his wife;
they grunted like my pigs when fed
the fingers of your darling kind, who can only scream.
I tapped on the windows of this very church,
and you thought I was just a dream,
lingering there on the old preacher's tongue,
when to an ageless God he sung.
Your music is wind in the caves of Hell,
your stadiums are my churches,
and all the faggotry of men, whose burning bright hair
resemble my flames, will doom you as well.
Version 1:
I looked over your shoulder as you chose CDs,
your thin white fingers stroking the case
of an album depicting my face.
Your hair was long and innocent,
my breath disturbed it like the wind
in a monastery garden, rich with what's alive.
I was there when your neighbour buggered his wife;
they grunted like my pigs when fed
the fingers of your darling kind, who can only scream.
I tapped on the windows of this very church,
and you thought I was just a dream,
lingering there on the old preacher's tongue,
when to an ageless God he sung.
Your music is wind in the caves of Hell,
your stadiums are my churches,
and all the faggotry of men, whose burning bright hair
resemble my flames, will doom you as well.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe