Empathy With The Devil - The Tear Garden

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…