Merry, You May Be.

For I Am The Flesh In Your Tounge.

Create To Yourself, Images Of These

Glass-eyed Figures,

And Expose To Me, Your Skin -

Whorish As Ever.

They Speak To Me, Your Pores, Your Veins,

In A Rush Of Melancholy.

In A Stream Of Misantrophy.



Remove The Carpet, So I May Be

United With The Shades Of These.



Blind My Eyes,

Still I Will See - Presence, Visuality.

I Grant You My Pale Hands,

Still I Will Feel - Shape, Contoures.



Please Leave.

In Me You Wont Find Any Pity,

As The Dog That Howls For The Light In My Eyes -

The Stench Or Your Nakedness, No Smell For A Mourner Like Me.

So, Please Leave.

In Here You Won¥t Find Any Pity.

Tour Kisses Were As Hell Itself.



Be Silent, For I Am The Flesh In Your Tounge.

Only I Can Wear Vast Costumes Of Time, And Still Be Present.

"So, Hereby I Rape Thee."