By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
The boy was gorgeous in the middle hour,
being part flesh and all rot. The sexton
watched him rise up and cast away his sour
smelling funeral shroud. His cracked, swollen
limbs soon smoothed themselves out. Flesh returning
to his frame. Dead boys make the best drama
queens. Still, love is love. The sexton, stepping
out from behind a gravestone, nausea
that the living feel for the dead quickly
fading, wrapped his warm arms around the cold,
little boy; pulling his eerie beauty
close, as if love was something we could hold.
Sacred love, no matter how odd or small;
we are blessed if we find our love at all.
Um divórcio… tudo
Eu mantive a memória
do o sua toque e os negativos.
Você manteve o boot você
chutou mim na cabeça com.
Meu bunda, como
dois montes de feno,
são o sonho do sol.
Eu me sinto como
a última flor antes
da geada, ou o último
beijo de Lilith e
em seu filho da puta
A divorce … everything was photographed. I kept the memory of your touch and the negatives. You kept the boot you kicked me in the head with. My ass, like two haystacks, are dreaming of the sun. I feel like the last flower before the frost or the last kiss of Lilith and her son of a bitch Adam.