Blissful through primal, damp pines, she wandered,
her youth like a pollenous flower dumbly bloomed
with petals seated deranged by the ravaging of the bee,
in trusty shoes she roamed the spiders and the leaves,
in light blue jeans she found a trail leading who knows where,
away from her mother's house, no longer home.

And rain and mist settled on the town,
an early morning storm passing by,
and the trees didn't care by the murderer's house,
as his garden happily bloomed,
he still lay asleep beside agony
dreaming a tub full of centipedes.

The summer's nightfall, apocalypse in the mind,
insect-swarmed street lights illuminate the past
and cigarette settles spine,
and there was the sun setting on a corpse in a field,
and there was the pale moon nowhere in the distance.

I'm not here, either.

I remember imaginary friends,
their whispers and caresses in the bed,
but they never told me why they were there,
and I can't remember when or how they went away,
and there went mercy, roadkill between my wheels.

The word of God was in its guts.

Here are muses made of primal nights,
there was gentle fear,
there was stirring in my lap,
and her eyes like oceans in the dark,
there was that scent, there was insomnia.

May the sun cease to rise.

Here is the horizon
where city-scapes and seeds of madness sprout,
as ancient as the wind, they sprout,
as ancient as the trees sway,
the soul is never ready.

The soul is never ready.

All time is sterilized,
all projects, all properties, under surveillance.
The queer has been coded,
its skeleton's in print.
Lust of sheep, quenched,
minds of insects, diseased,
the weird all shamble in place.

But they cannot enter this space,
where my ebony spider waits,
and they cannot measure my eyes,
they cannot find my serpentine dreams
that slither, shedding skins upon this wasteland's soil.

We never were a revolution,
we were simply idiots with the wind,
psychosis of the witch,
death of the gods,
we are where Pisces pours its sweet poison,
where Aries gives way to the flesh,
dropping us where the maggots fall,
where the maggots get it on...

And they cannot put me to sleep,
nor can they lie to me,
and they cannot measure my eyes,
they cannot show me where beauty lies,
my heart's pathway...

The lonely demon's name is Source,
who grips behind my eyes and stops my search.

The lonely demon says,
'Watch them as they reenact the weddings of the dead,
and as they wonder if they've altered fate.'

The lowly spider's name is Symbol,
and its creeping legs will suffer in the era when it crawls.

The lonely demon says,
'Night is delirium of the soul,
and morning's the blooming of our limbs.'

The rebel is a hollow husk
dreaming in the spider's web, and no one knows his name.

The lonely demon says,
'Though forever he desires,
a hollowed rebel is never filled.'

we didn't have a choice.
with a primal scream,
we entered this dimension,
this labyrinth.
with the sun,
our heads are aligned,
cadaver bright and loud.
on this earth,
our steps are callous
and meaningless.
in this calm chaos,
we wander,
we feel.
as worms writhe,
we devour,
we thrive.
we didn't have a choice.