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1. |
I Fall with the Saints
04:02
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All in line are the Saints, cracked and bashed
other worlds are calling them; a call
to burn and burning fall into jaws wide open.
Now their sons will sink into this foam
of ash and desire of flesh, and fuck
their sister ‘til death, biting
and scratching their backs, and filling
with cum their bowels.
Perverse is the voice of the Sun
and Truth is a sip of blood.
Tools of a will to consume, our frenzy
is sacred, we stand in a future blast:
blinding the eyes of the nightsky.
Fall, fall down in the depths
while penetrating a Goddess
with my dick; the abyss throat
echoes with divine moans
as I lick her ears, dig her cunt and grab the breast.
Fall, fall down with the Saints
and cum while they’re burning,
the flames light up her eyes:
“Oohh, the lion’s den….”
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2. |
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In the sands of the six days, under
the subdued, soft blow of
leashed locusts, imprecates its hobbling leg
and invites me, invites me to sit,
to sit for centuries below the light
(bluebells shaking canines and mane)
of a street lamp, where the Prayer waits
for me on a marble bench
and sanctify two dry little wings still
bonded to what no more exists.
Then cries out the Prex, then
cries out beyond the red crests
hiding the wounded leg, as far as
recognize the trumpets and a puppet
raped and slammed as the bells
of our narrow doors, sizzling and biting
like a hurting and dried throat:
“Do you want me as malediction?”
“Yes. Yes!
Havoc the firtrees, the breathes, and hair will be
the salt of Carthago.”
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3. |
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Dancing souls around a tree,
their spines shine in the fog.
The names, and the pics of when they lived
surround me as a buried womb.
A rainbow, under their pouring memories,
appears and then our stories
become one; and a murmuring river
fed by this ghost rain
gushes from darkness and washes my heart.
“Do you lead me to
the pyre where my offers can be burnt?
Where the peace I perceive
will find me also when I’m gone?”
I ask.
“Mute are the only fitting
gloves for our hands; our action
can’t be heard.”
So I sing with my knees on the cold soil,
I sing grateful to the night and its foils.
I sing alone.
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Brucia Records Genoa, Italy
Home of Uncanny, Unsettling and Unusual Music
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