Parlour tricks don’t feed my hate filled soul with the pleasure I so desire, shallow illusions deal nothing of the pain I wish to eviscerate upon your mortality, come take my hand (severed from its twisted Fran) and dance this with my demented caricature, misery (not with the fate of company, not the love of it, but the desire, THE WANT, separate the head from the shoulders with blades as tall as the sky) separate the serpent from the arm of its master, confident saint, severed god, sinners all and more to see than misery (not with the fate of company, not with the love of it, but the desire, THE WANT, so separate the head from the shoulders with blades as tall as the sky)
where the impossible seems three shorts steps to the left, and one giant leap into insanity…
