I like bananas,
their clothes so cool and smooth...
hmm, no taste required.

The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
  And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
  And the harpies of upper air,
  That flutter and laugh and stare.

For the village dead to the moon outspread
  Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
  Where the rivers of madness stream
  Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.

A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
  In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
  And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
  For harvests that fly and fail.

Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
  That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
  Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
  And looses the vast unknown.

So here again stretch the vale and plain
  That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
  Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
  To shake all the world with awe.

And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
  The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
  Shall some day be with the rest,
  And brood with the shades unblest.

Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
  And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
  Of horror and death are penned,
  For the hounds of Time to rend.

-on a periodic nausea of the wall of life

God, I hate nature:
it's your face, your countenance
- it's just too close.

     Listen to the bubbling,
     this industrious din
     of an underwater world.

It's your toes, your feet,
your legs, your body: yourself.
You and me, that's you.

     Read the intestines,
     this plant for ****:
     it feeds the brains.

It's me as you look
in the mirror of my dreams,
strong, brave and untrue.

     This triumph of nature,
     this boasting blubber,
     always on the edge,
     just one step from the abyss.

It's me that is you,
any side is real, a blunt wall;
no room left for me.

-a prayer for Jan 24th, Day of Shame. From the year 2217,
from the service book of a future denomination

It is time for repentance,
the annual pilgrimage.
To the doors of heaven
and the odours of hell.

     Let us visit your creation,
     the blessed pipe that bleeds.

Let us cross the barbedwire,
let us enter the tunnel.
Let us hear the trickling stream,
let us smell your ineffable breath.

     Let us visit our souls,
     our inner vagrant selves.

Let us look down into the black current
and watch your great flowing face.
And through it, in it, while we watch,
we sinners recognize ourselves.

     Let us visit your revelation,
     our tested veins that bleed.

From the deserts of the great plains
to the drowned cities of the coasts...
Your whip on our spines
confirms the evil that we host.

-on a decent starting point, or the act of breathing

I'm not fit
to live the life,
to shrug the burden
off my shoulders.

Weep, weep...
woosh - woosh - woosh,
dang-dang, dang-dang:
bye bye, bye...

There goes your train...
Let it go, let it go!

Let the air breathe your lungs,
let the wind bleed your ears.

Then ask
what you really -
what you really want:
what you - or I - really need.