Life is a mystery,
a tropical history.
Big suit men stand at every corner
handing you cash and prizes,
for running races they have on paper.
Such suckers really.
And every man born has a tumour,
its either in their head,
or in their penis.
And such suckers we are really,
that we listen to ghosts and metaphysical voices
when all that there is,
is only greed.
So shut up and listen to me when I tell you,
money you promise is worse than your sins,
because paper will burn but
where will you hide your soul.
Christ may have been a great sacrifice,
Today I don’t care for the pastor or the priest.
Today my soul is skin deep.
And this is the first incidence of decadence.
Like seven sins, like seven days
There are seven incidents,
Then, is the fetid consummation by flaming prayers…
(But what do we care)
Forgiving voices cannot hold me back, tonight
For I climb
I climb the spiral stair
The spiral stairway into a smoke.
And only the morning,
The morning can burst open
The depth of my lust.
Only the morning with its blinding light
Can clean the wounds of the night.
Only the morning can slow down my speeding mind.
When I am done through the day, the daily paper
I feel no remorse till I am settled for supper.
Only then in the pseudo-alter of my subconscious
Does arise a voice speaking easy,
Arise a voice with licking desire
Of blood, of grief and even the tragedies of the Greeks.
But with a metaphysical smile,
I brush everything past
And leave the world to economists and politics.
I have no eye, no time
For parliamentarians or their butcher knives.
Decadence is a half smile half scorn
You must learn to breathe with your mask on.