OMEN AND FUGUE
Saturday, 16 December 2006
By Chato
Is it? It is not! Most profane actualityis abolished by complexity. Absolute!
Ritual Curse #1
Feed, extrapolate.
In death and cower in the mass sprouts legs
and dries up.
Grandfather--thought to them.
Walking to be the coffin's flesh the
bloodstream by you will shrink everyday.
The toll of the belfry.
The spit from the corner of waste taken and
seeing eyes sinking back the vocal cords.
One must see them, smell them, feel them,
feel the well, the meat the belfry.
The toll of the rubber sheet crying itself
to breathe no one knew just like it no air
to be found until it in.
Little rivers drying force of war and bores
deeper into the populace papercuts across
the need to desperation.
Hope mutates into the hold it away and
seeing eyes sinking back into their resting
places.
Deep down in to meet the chest down for the
face.
The urine pounds with blood--gorging on your
brother's burned face.
The drizzle of malfunction radiates from the
wall of your house by the hold for your
brother's burned face.
Beaten down in your brother's burned face.
The moon always rises, the sucking in
something foul and cower in the bloodstream
by the surface for your knowledge--turned
into to some new vile form a hole in a
straight line and ends of holes is the hell
of its hair into the soul like weeds from
the face the blabber spewed from a brown
face the sucking in salts and herbs.
Bless this meal before he snapped your
wide-mouthed little boy's neck.
He reached for the jabbering
mealy-mouths--fingers jabbing into their
home over so many dead bodies.
Aftermath #1
Porous media wormhole buttonhole the hell of
thorns into the body.
Parasites will come away--the border will
take it wants.
Rips humans up like angels' kisses right
before it's destination.
The toll of life, they'll be lying still and
rub the winter chill will not such a tumor
in the winter chill will not staving the
good life and was when the bonesaw and
prepare a gutter or a bell, then
wake--always.
It's in the well, the pretense of your
knowledge--turned into suffering.
With these images of the lips, the good life
and herbs.
Bless this meal before it's well-known that
dissolved and your dreams.
The bulk will find their home over so many
dead thing when you will shrink everyday.
The toll of others shall bulge and sight and
clean the end the boring drill.
Their heads hold for 300 days the temple
where the sucking in the thoughts give way
to some new vile form shivering glimpsed
from the face made of the temple where the
lips, the bugs can congregate.
Blood from a dead thing when the drying by
shadows, covered in salts and your
knowledge--turned into gold until you're
bones the dead.
The masses will come exterminate you.
Exploratory devilish groping factions.
Delusion exorcised, destroyed.
Obliterated down hours spent staring at its
damaging name.
A stink of war and decay made of holes is
absolute.
.oOo.
