duminică, 11 ianuarie 2015


This is another story of the maccabre written in chaotic air.
All do gooders yeld and tremble at words of despair!
Ghouls and goblins, for this deed, have cleaved the trees of their leafs,
Letting secrets to endark the souls of mortals in paths of stiffs...

The candles of death bring twilight to the fossil of dawn
A moon of blood rises over the ruins of pillars
The sky’s canvas is dyed in black of the crows
The bones of November are pierced by the thorns of hell

With molecules of ravens we write these veins of epitaph,
In the graveyard, where we found
Cadavers of babies resting in a
Sarcophagus’s placenta

From the green of the womb we summon the skeleton of resurrection
Carried upon wings of ghosts
We stir the cauldron upon the blazing fire
Infusing the mystic liquor with ingredients of dire:

Skulls of fetuses,
Skins of the colossus,
Tears of the virgin,

Eyes of the sands,
Heads of tulips,
Hearts of angels,

Ambrosia of tongues,
Bowels of nuns,
A breath of ash,

Breasts of nurses,
Sperm of roses.

Let the echoes of worms feed the owl of darkness
And the kisses of torment descend doom with the cuffs of lips!