What is all food, but the butter of our Earth; the young, sweet pussies like the gardens before the stairway to heaven.  The wine, like the croquet of our souls.  Our loves, fleeting and never-ending, like stark voices in smoke disappearing and fading away, only to return as warm memories or climactic collateral overhaul.  Our fears, like chains on our senses, operated by those who’ve learned how to grip.  What is all food, but the grease of the machine; the sterile iv beside the devil’s bed.

 

Happy Morbid

 

Twisted inside amalgamous rotation

Our reliefs and ideologies are

One and the same

 

Fisted, deprived autonomous nations

Are the weakened, fie theologies

Fallen by the game

 

Unknown is that of true nature

The minds of life live on

To see something more

 

Disowned are those of the creator

Their kind derived if from

Spewth from the volcano core

 

2009-2010  Jake Vincent Belmont