This lyrical wreckage flourishes from the pungent
Inmost of my oft sabbatical maggot-eaten kind-heartedness
Neither from a whitish hand, nor from a dusky paw,
But from my rotten tonsils and my hoarse voice.
At dusk, inhaling for eternities
Thy ruthless scent of a corpse-ghoul’s sexual miasma.

As thou read this,
Thou shall feel amongst raven Belladonnas,
Topaz blooms and nymphomaniac demonic sirens,
Wives of Belial.

All for naught…
Keep on writing as death strives to get me
And forever to languish my ebony soreness.
To exscind an esurient satyriasis and exult sinisterly.

Nothing shall slacken this wanton lust
Imprisoned in my godless phallus,
So rub it, lick it and cut it off with the ripper’s scythe,
Bath it into the bloodshed of Aphrodite’s whore.
Ride with me bareback hell’s stallions
Like whiz kids of Cinderella,
Inside the eerie crib of Darkness
Beneath the austere moon’s tomb,
Where she devoured carrion crows
Mutilated.