Sweet treacle of pornish sweat
trickling down the spine of
my nightly conscience
Imagine how good it would taste
to the army of famished flies
those who have starved to numbness
I have burnt my guilt to light
the lamp for the spawning buzz
Go left
Go right
Go straight
Go to hell
They tell you always.
Hell is where my soul resides
in reflected glory
of an inglorious life.
Oh, the melody of a riot
the drone of a melancholic choir
singing in the church of Satan
Litanies of lust!
I will never be guided by God's hand
Never to heaven's door
beg entry.
Now my own Beelzebub
has grown wings of doom
to fly me to my
private loom.
And I will spin your life too
around my crimson-painted finger-nail
and toe -
Whipping your wary soul back to pandemonium
You, yes, you will be alive again
To sing verses that stir in you
the sin of living
of loving.
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