merry, you may be.
for i am the flesh in your tounge.
create to yourself, images of these
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.
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 h*ll 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.”