3.Empathy With The Devil
My flavor is the stuff of locusts. Hot chili firebrand spitting
volcano
teeth. Bleeding skies, sulpher mines... The foul breath of
Satan's favorite
gutter worm. You feel me when I'm close - an ice wind of steel
stilettos
hammered in your spine. Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing
forth and
everything's a mess. every posession you ever had - wrecked -
lying at your
feet. Telegrams that tell you God is dead piled high on the TV.
The
incessant TV. Burbling. Distorted. A cheesecake nun advertising
20 brands
of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different languages. A gargoyle
handjives for
the hard of hearing. Subliminals. Criminals. Phoney buisinessmen
in thick
rimmed glasses. Bad comedians. Laughing bags aping the
Hallelujah chorus -
the forgotton version - out of key (slightly). Just enough to
annoy you.
My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting Man-Ray maggots! Dead
maggots. My
flavor's a wound re-opening by surprise, green fishes eyes
flowing out.
Wriggling things. Gelatinous. Still alive and screaming - out of
key
(slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's a plunging
elevator a
millisecond before it hits the cellar. A cellar with mutated
rats. Old -
very old - lost teeth. Abortions. Garbage. So pungent it hums -
out of
key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's your
flavor. Deep
within you. Hidden. Waiting to get out...
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