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Through Stained Touch of My Nemesis

Possibly, unexpected
Allowing a scorpion that
Of what we still don't know
And let it fall in sculptured blood
By the swing of his scrotum
 
The Putatives Grade your pre-judging swoon
Overflowing bashfully to the view of a Shaved God
in the brutal darkness of an abandonded horse eye
 
A second scissor obtains admission
over fivefolds of sorrow
and it wasn't just the chaos
knitted like clothes
Then when a flaming creature did it
in the self-chosen dances of death
And the darker ones lead
The Seraphs who hurriedly chase the sounds
To keep back the thoughts of bursting
A pissed Eel,
Whose effigy steps over the edge of the abyss
 
No flames reach me
and no one is already there
Where my death discords with
an enslaved toy base
 
No nail shadows tears through the stillness
Of my submissive return home
Yet, only to directly sit itself on a shorter sword belt
Over the consumed shame of my darken ardor
 
Death believes negligence instigates with vehemence
across the pale ashes that broods a ready to fry love
and the once straight beam is now bent
and strapped to the wick no more
 

You Must Kill Yourself

Aimless priest of sarcasm
Breeding a rich suffering
When they're walking naked
a raw species is rotting
 
Where angels had once danced
and lied to the pale black
now sparrows fall down to the side
and explore deception with comic irony
 
Like needle stitches in singularities
expired and prolonged in penance
There lies in cold the gardener of both races
And blights variables of
Dead necessity and space
 
But don't listen to me tomorrow
I can bring you the comforting proof
Could go down to the maternal dark
where dimness and chaos
judge heaven and earth.
 

Devilcrazy God Thirteen

I am not only a color
but lately 17 and 3
As the 11th will eventually die.
 
Time is brief and never longer
therefore I allow my shoulder to bury
and all my fingers line one by one
Then I can deny the black hole
and deeply fold in a chasity of insights
 
Next time we listen to your blood
and it results in the sin of my strangled sprat
as half watch the loud pitch laugh in your vicinity
And the evily humored temptation tarnish fruit-bearing suicide
My saddle will skid no further into tomorrow
And in 1955 the dead will die in the infernal oblivion
of my own domain
However, we won't conquer like Erinnyen in page two
but rather stalk our soulless nature
in 3 shades of grey
 
To caress a delusion sometimes causes a peculiar presence
which behaves how a deeply sunken razor would sound in blood
and consequently our echos let a glow in the breastless Bestiarium.
 
As my poisoned shadows broke in two from the Zodiacal light
and only further a displeased death of the struggling odoring
Shock of a horned blade in the perfection of animalistic lust
Decorating itself in a disgusting vesture
Bacchanten climbed icy abysses
yet, it won't bring forth the tender damnation
Necessity to breed is blinded by the Oviparious yearn for death.
And those not against God & Lucifer are suspicious
A dissolute force highhandedly requires danger
When Death rings for several luckless maids
Bluish anarchy will instill over the Gates of Naked lust
Only an elder enrichment of the boiling-points to forgive my life
Will the blasphemic origin contribute to all the graven feet of the downfall.
 

Yesterday I Still Killed Myself Today

Even now where I adjoin the wick
Architeuthis princeps finds himself
On a quest after the religious Satan
for a naive sin in a desolate
Accomodation
 
And when the child with the bloody mouth
Was denied the last kiss
It wasn't an answer to the last one
 
Fountain go to your brother...
Then not a collar comes there of
Is he still red from the ice melting?
 
Why does the young copy have to
like the anomalies of
a machine heart?
 
By now there are strange shadows
that move where once lonely foot steps
performed the dance that cried for heaven
 

Nexus

Even our terrestrially penalization in darkness
Strides unscared in the ruin of immaterialistic density
 
Sacred incest imitates Zoonosen in debility
As soon as the shallow places fatally interprete annoyed wasps
 
The seemingly dead undermine inactive cycles in decadence
as long as prohibited idiocy indiscretly exposes rear-view pictures
 
Rarely skulk inherent hermaphrodites their demons
but speak in provisional wrath amongst humility
 

Dead White Marten

Out of a watery devotion
in trinitious aspect awakened
grants apple juice
to the disgusting duke
a strangely crying hereditary burden
 
To the bloody chainment
of lust impregnated by Thanes
dancing clothespins darken
a rusty Mosaic
upon quietly moving lips
 
And the leaking difference
in a permanently unloved wave
Fades in purgatory
of the little death
 
Man dies like his water
And often Christ was buried
in a hilarious communion
 
May the once bent skull bone
grow above the top of a lost knife
 

As I Puked Another Caulerpa Taxifolia

Lust refreshes itself on comforting pain
and sweat intermixes with the thirst
of many others
 
I gave birth at the foot of the mirror
and uplifted my salted head
Which bedded in embers even cooled
with twisted tongue coincidence
...escaped
 

Lingering Fart

Bekloppto Beknakkto, seven infernal hellfirewinds of Flautz
And there three Bald-headed blasphemies of no role-playing-games
Have rarely thought to themselves: Kiffsel, Kaffsel, Kuffsel
 
Yeah, what is it then?
Stinky-cunt puked once in awhile
In a bucket of cats
And Satanic sewing-machines
The evil sausage sinking
sank
 
When childish greasy pizza
picks at their hair
Fussy struggle horn and having a flat chest
To cause irrevelant blows of mayhem
 
When foul-toothed dirk stinks out of his mouth
Biting flesh in the land of vertical
Smiles
 
Hellchrist evil and painfulness kiss
master of the six silver strings of hell
as well was a little bit unimportant
Sturmbas, the great countess of Eva
wanted to stay in the bar in the little asshole
fuck, fucked
 
The devil has sons
 

The anarchistic liberation of the religion of eyewitnesses

To avoid death means
to lose the game of banishment
My scent is perfection
all the empty milk bottles are reflected
by my surface
 
I was sold out to the river
to the red, replacable slave
and the story became faster
the outline was executed,
the black flag cries
and all books were overcooked
 
Think of a number
divide it by me
something results in nothing
and nothing is nothing
 
A sublime purpose
confronts me aggressively
I want to deny the inevitable
and experience the impossible
There has never been a number
and I break apart diamond-shaped
 
Only because contradictions
occur with every step and change
only because involvements
rise up from the dead and escape in new rules
the disguise, if recovered,
is protesting to the veneered exosceleton
replies, if received, become
wings of my frosted pilgrimage
 
Now I can open the snake
and burn my macerated face
can rip off the palliation,
can think of the number
and not of the answer
 
You said, I was no tuna
packed in tinfoil
'cause all clocks are silent all the same
and I am far too big,
to dart across the burning water
 
There is no table anymore,
I sink,
sink.