The Tear Garden

Empathy With The Devil

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My flavor is the stuff of locusts.
Hot chili firebrand spitting volcano
teeth.
Bleeding skies, sulpher mines...
The foul breath of Satan's favorite
gutter worm.
You feel me when I'm close - an ice
wind of steel stilettos
hammered in your spine.
Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing
forth and everything's a mess.
every posession you ever had - wrecked -
lying at your feet.
Telegrams that tell you God is dead
piled high on the TV.
The incessant TV.
Burbling.
Distorted.
A cheesecake nun advertising 20 brands
of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different
languages.
A gargoyle handjives for the hard of
hearing.
Subliminals.
Criminals.
Phoney buisinessmen in thick rimmed
glasses.
Bad comedians.
Laughing bags aping the Hallelujah
chorus - the forgotton version - out of
key (slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting
Man-Ray maggots!
Dead maggots.
My flavor's a wound re-opening by
surprise, green fishes eyes flowing out.
Wriggling things.
Gelatinous.
Still alive and screaming - out of key
(slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor's a plunging elevator a
millisecond before it hits the cellar.
A cellar with mutated rats.
Old - very old - lost teeth.
Abortions.
Garbage.
So pungent it hums - out of key
(slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor's your flavor.
Deep within you.
Hidden.
Waiting to get out...

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