A Forest Of Stars Proboscis Master Versus The Powdered Seraphs
Face down in the dust of their blasted utopia
Razors scrape obtuse angels into manageable lines
Eyes brimming with chemical repulse
Nostrils crusted with manifold millennia of dried up mortification
Of spiritual fabrication
Inhaling the future, new orifices torn for those sexless angels
Strength of will hammered flat by biological circumstance
Cells forming the biggest cell of all
Body of death, true burden
My opiate naïve autumn putting a gleam to your sycophant summer like so much make believe
Throw in your hands for the abyssal disco
All the right shapes chucked into all the wrong holes
All's about to snap, spring has sprung on the christ trap
In fact we'll do worse than put a match to your faces
We'll have you writhing, you cunts, do you hear?
All you monotheists born from the dust of deserts
Myth piled upon myth, spiritual plague pit
Seething maggot balls, fuel for future tombs
Twisting mass a'roil with turning worms
Keep your maggots away from my soul
I'm willing to risk an aneurysm if you'll just shut up and wait in line
Just impulses piloting corpses through mistake upon farce
Glance around for the shroud, how's your fitting?
Dancer with ghost
Spinning so madly around
Dancer with ghosts, spinning so madly around
Down amongst the dead
All our graves walked all over
All our graves walked all over
