The Martyrs walked hand in hand to the sacred arena
crucified alone so that we may dance in dishonest
pleasures.
"Your god is a bullet" they hollered with their dead
breaths, and he threatens to make believers of us all"

And in the end, like nothing he appeard.
The winged cadaver,
flying high,
making music in the sky.
no doubt a messenger from the hights or depths of
surrealism
Fluttering about,
reaching the edges of belief itself,
nesting gloatfully in the winter of our discontent.

The earth turns endlessly, yet we dont feel a thing.
Then one dat you look up,
all it takes is a spark and the sky is on fire.
We gaze up at the cosmic dance of creation & destruction in
awe and astral agony
but then we look back down, and there are our households,
littered with flesh

just caress your eyes, fingers slick with liquid pain.

"the tears will be endless" the cadaver moans "but
tomorrow's damnation lies behind your eyes"