The mystery of love,
Spits with desire,
Watch it evolve,
Ply it with fire,
It came from above,
Higher and higher,
A riddle to solve,
Awaken the squire,
Upon a winged horse,
Virtue and vice,
As lust takes its course,
Sugar and spice,
A terrible force,
Colder than ice,
With little remorse,
Naughty but nice.

I see a billion black boot soldiers
Marching through the dawn
In a ****** up ****** sky,
With thier standards standing high.

There’s a tale in every colour
And a line through what’s been drawn,
That depicts the hurtful images;
Of the things I can’t describe

I see a single dove amongst two spires,
Flying high above the crowds,
Calm within the sweet warm light,
With her wings spread wide; she glides.

Now there’s poetry in motion;
With her head up in the clouds;
A good soul in quiet repose,
And with her angel eye she spy’s.

A foetus in its Sunday best,
Travelling through the birth canal,
On a joyous bed of hell;
From betwixt two ****** thighs.

A brand new storey does unfold,
It’s said all’s well that ends well,
Its place of birth here on Earth;
That’s where we hear each child’s first cry.

This painter paints for me
An image I can’t perceive
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

Soon another will pass by,
Lying in a box too cold.
In a cemetery up high,
On the top white lily’s lie.

As-if in quiet thinking,
Four corners of a box men hold;
Within the body’s final fold;
A simple sky the mourners cry.

This Artist paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive;
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

This painter paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive,
And I sense that as one enters life;
Another light shall die.

Insects once restless below the bark,
Now skit across the torn dress that hugs the sweet flesh of my honey,
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby,
But she’s my honey just the same.

My hands clench this the object of my desire,
Six legs stride to and fro escaping this murky mire,
Perspiration runs the length of her shirt,
While fluid fertilises this ever evolving tide of ****** consumption.

Her scent inhabits the soil,
She’s breaking down from corner to corner silently in alternating triangles.
Love is written here within the beauty of her frame.
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby but she’s my honey just the same.

She comes to me in dreams In dreams, in dreams.

Simply scoop lots of Vaseline into your hands and rub it into a small fluffy cat; work it in all over and slick it right back!
you get what looks like a very convincing otter, and at a faction of the cost!.

The son of love and god scratched the surface of humanity, only to fall in love with a kind soul, for every night I slept, the monster invisible crept, naked with feathers and a bow loosing arrows blow by blow; Busily chanting songs from its celestial throne, songs that transform; inspire love, arouse jealousy and invoke war!
Please, please, take pity on these the windows of my soul, for when the son of love is seen and the temples fall, the earth will howl with the trees, the birds and bees, let sleeping dogs lie with the serpents of blind faith and beauty;
Place in a box the nectar to protect her, untill the earth grows young again, voluptuous and born of pleasure.

Above the rain below the ground,
the leaves hide her blooded shroud,
Soon her folks will sense her plight,
Through the tortured dead of night,
They’ll ring her friends, the cops, and every-one,
They’ll search for miles until their done,
And when she’s found 6 months later,
once again she makes the papers.

First they sent me flowers,
Then they sent me gold,
Then they stole every hour of my life
When they sent me down that hole,

First the ground began shake,
Then the roof fell in,
Then came the unholy silence,
That spewed the darkness from within.

The family sent down flowers,
sent down pictures of our kin,
They ticked every box on their forms,
From this place of filth and sin.

Not even a drop to drink,
Not even a mobile phone,
Down in the stinking city of rock,
Pleading for our homes.

We used to mine for copper,
It’s true they owned our soul,
Now we simply fight for survival,
as three rigs bore the holes.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

A billion eyes are watching,
As we’re pulled from the ground,
Despite the dust... the blood and fever,
The circus comes to town.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.