"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Scourge of God and the Whispering Malice


I claim no companion,
There art none left
And I will die on the cross
Carved from the structure
Of my own wealth

No Black Omen
Can take what I’ve built
Any Queen is a tyrant, here
And her scream, shrill
‘fore her viscera
And new wings are unfurled
By a Liston knife
Escorting the prerogative of Terra
Yes, the entire world,
In the fist of a men-wrought Man
A drought of god-ichor
Has led him to the furl,

That bitch in heat,
Eschewing syllables;
My assonance
Cuts the life-breath
From voices
And the ultimatum in choices
Sought by a Conquistador
Whom’s end is met
By the worth of my life…
And to it’s last sight, bequeath
The bisection
Of your resplendent body
Ragged flesh on blood-stained bone
It’s contents for all to see,

That adipose in the seat of regency.

-Thursday, December 11, 2008

Leave a Reply




You can use these HTML tags

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>