we pray to the gods of stone for relief, and the suffering erweitert sich nur! what dull ears our gods redeem, offering relief only in so far as relief does no great good, no great ecstasy, food to the full, water to the drowning! A curse upon all the stone that builds and all the rubble that remains! A curse upon the dreams of greatness while suckling a festering, swollen tit! A curse upon ourselves: guilty of so many things except love. And were we given such relief from the dreams of damnation, what then? what then might we be? i can not even mouth the words for fear of paralysis, for years of dreaming the fights of, for and by missgeburten!! A hell for their gods, should I ever see them! A burning of witches and wild beasts shall be our tended feast, false as the bread and wine, sulfur stench ruining through thoughts that once were mein. But now, we cower from Origami Storms; rattling thunder and sparking lightning under pillows and between folded, tired hands. There is no death clean enough to warrant the chamber maid’s soft breath heaving through choked orgasm until the toilets are clean and the beds are made. but still, we murder deep within souls, while we still can, while we still can! Let not your gods see us then, pretending over and over again that the Chamber Maid had never done us wrong. These stone gods have no forgiveness for blood shed upon their innocence, their fragile metamorphosis of granite from all of our lives can and will not tolerate the feeble sacrifices to them in empty living rooms paneled in mirrors: I was gifted with scars until there was no tenderness to fear lost. and still I fear its loss, having forgotten to grieve.
screaming at low volumes
