Behind My Lids

Gods smell on death,
gods smell on death,
stones mourn while gods smell...
smell... smell on death.
Depression is the mother and the queen
of the underground anarchy.
With knees through the pegs,
with knees through the pegs,
with knees through the pegs
we kneel on three eyed tongues of the gods.

Cerberuses are the candles-
monumental shrine, a welkin, expires.
Deities whisper metropolises
and die on the baneful pupils.

I see the white Devil,
he is armored bearer
of my mementos
which were synchronized by the anguish
and damaged by the time.

Sun is fading away, moistened with ghosts,
moisture burgeons
-fog absorbs moths of death-
moisture burgeons
-Satan burns on adapted papers, which snakes licked-
moisture burgeons from broken fingers of eight-handed passer-bys,
and maturity becomes the god.

Although, what is the difference between the god and the pain?
Like headless butterfly which immersed
its wings into barrier built from fanciful delusions,
we excrete wax, once... twice...
...until evolution becomes another
shape of sound signal,
message written in the blood.
And I scream north constellations
with fifty five crosses
pierced through the tongue and with the one
astride owl in the throat .

(Aren't Heresy and the Conscience one?)

Daylight exfoliates paper from paper!
Between the crypts embraced with flames
and edges of questions which apparitions of self-destructive scars
asked the system,
one and only, our Goddess, Lobotomy, woke.