My morning has come at last; the faun picks pleasant petals of pain,

and if I should die and go to Hell, then dance with my body; should it bleed again?

Satan plays his piano; I want to sing for him.

Your throat is shredded by little white ticks; would you leave, if I drown those lies?

I am drifting on a craft of your blood and mine, against the open sea; friend alone, ‘tis brooding breeze. Be I the bastard for whom you wake to cold sweat and clammy sheets?

Her sun has fourteen cavities, from all the fire that she eats; revolve around a broken sun. The podium goes higher by the day; you grow higher by the hour. I am not that kind of whore.

Minister man’s laughing between his teeth; he’s got the Bible, boys let’s kill.

Your heart beat when I held it to the sky; your heart beat when I held it to the sun. It rolled from a God’s feet; it tossed and tumbles down the hill.

My morning has come at last; red water sulks in the river. You are a bitch, for whom God bows four heads in envy.

You are a beast; I serve you supper.