Merry, you may be.
For I am the flesh in your tounge.
Create to yourself, images of these
Glass-eyed figures,
And expose to me, your skin
Whorish as ever.
They speak to me, your pores, your veins,
In a rush of melancholy.
In a stream of misantrophy.
Remove the carpet, so I may be
United with the shades of these.
Blind my eyes,
Still I will see presence, visuality.
I grant you my pale hands,
Still I will feel shape, contoures.
Please leave.
In me you wont find any pity,
As the dog that howls for the light in my eyes
The stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me.
So, please leave.
In here you won't find any pity.
Tour kisses were as hell itself.
Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge.
Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present.
"So, hereby I rape thee.
