Post by desecration on Jul 12, 2004 2:32:17 GMT -5
Angels of blood and grit
Rancid breath sweet on twisted lips
Of the devil’s prized hounds.
Bloated bodies and ripped flesh
Floating through nightmares of children
Whose daddies had too much to drink,
And too many ladies
With chipped fingernails and haunted eyes
That hold the essence of hell in their screams,
Before returning to an aching home
Riddled with the sluggish emptiness
Capable of penetrating even the most jaded DSS worker
And dissolving all reason behind antiseptic texts.
A home constructed of animal musk,
Lined with pillars of red-painted knives,
And moth-eaten curtains of billowing ash.
The children arch and moan beneath demonic fingers
Plying their innocence away from shivering skeletons.
As their memories swirl through images of bleeding women
And greasy stubble flavored with gin and tobacco
Their angels stand motionless with toothy sabers
Slicked with eternity’s frigid fire.
But they are naught but imaginings and cannot interfere.
As their youthful charges are broken and broken again,
Beneath the stoic gazes of angels of blood and grit
Who are naught but the devil’s prized hounds
Wandering in such regrettable disguise.
Rancid breath sweet on twisted lips
Of the devil’s prized hounds.
Bloated bodies and ripped flesh
Floating through nightmares of children
Whose daddies had too much to drink,
And too many ladies
With chipped fingernails and haunted eyes
That hold the essence of hell in their screams,
Before returning to an aching home
Riddled with the sluggish emptiness
Capable of penetrating even the most jaded DSS worker
And dissolving all reason behind antiseptic texts.
A home constructed of animal musk,
Lined with pillars of red-painted knives,
And moth-eaten curtains of billowing ash.
The children arch and moan beneath demonic fingers
Plying their innocence away from shivering skeletons.
As their memories swirl through images of bleeding women
And greasy stubble flavored with gin and tobacco
Their angels stand motionless with toothy sabers
Slicked with eternity’s frigid fire.
But they are naught but imaginings and cannot interfere.
As their youthful charges are broken and broken again,
Beneath the stoic gazes of angels of blood and grit
Who are naught but the devil’s prized hounds
Wandering in such regrettable disguise.
