If by my fault,
I am rejected, then
by my excellence,
into perfection,
I am injected like black tar heroin
into the dead vein of the world.
All my glistening wrath,
the equations that pervert my immaculate maths,
the torture and the sprawl of poignancy, the waters like ether bath.
In valleys,
in calm storms,
tempests of the calamity
like repentance
in the arms of
the dying,
the young,
the lying
and the highly strung.
Blood is nothing but the taste of a moment in the rapture of eclipse,
meat in the carnality of fortune,
my infinite, eternal fucking fault.

I am mad,
but only because madness loves
the taste of my flesh
next to the rotted putridity
of your composed shell.
I am feast for madness.

Today, I spill the souls
of a thousand enemies,
the spirits of a million worthless friends, the brains of all the
warmongering serpents.
Guts and ruin,
minds and absolution,
the perverted,
the inverted ashes
of the converse day,
the fortune tellers,
the elliptical fallacies.
This is the metamorphic industrial,
the twisting of the changeling,
channel me, flay me on pyres for the burning rust of deadness birthed.

I am only the
worse version
of the best fucking dream
I dream.