With the snow fallen thick. And bonfires alit. And shooting stars portents of rips. I ascended to spur. A mere glimpse or murmur. From her precious celestial lips.
Here sat Babylon. Fattened by the purses of the worst and wrong. Where the decadent tastes of Hell grew strong. Like a curse upon. This tragic kingdom.
When contrary winds blow across the sands. Their murmurs can be easily swayed. But when storms quicken one cannot placate. The howling of their murderous rages.
Poets racking absinthed brains. Could never fully paint these nights. No martyr parting from his pain. Could utter words so erudite. As those she now divulged to me.
The world was her cloister, the abbess Duboir. In the convent at All Hallows fair. A pearl in an oyster she shone like a star. Augmenting her sisterhoods prayers.
I'm chaos international. The writing on the wall. A Lazarus in parable. . A dark and sullen lullaby. Whispered softly as you die. Promising torments are nigh.
Where will you be they tense for warfare?. What will you see with your innocence there?. Where will you be my darling?. Where will you be they tense for warfare?.
As lonely as a poet on the walls of Jericho. Or the moon without the comfort of the stars. I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul. Is nothing but a spilled canopic jar.
He would rise triumphant. All done up. On a plume of raven wings. Trafficking with sycophants. Sharing his cup. Amidst other graver things. . Alchemists and sorcerers stitched his head.
Eclipsing violent centuries. Like a dark scar over France. Enter the nascent Gilles De Rais. A warrior and a scholar. He fought for Joan Of Arc. Before she met with martyrdom in flames.
One dark afternoon like a shadow I flew. Through the rain that fell sick with lament. To this house of incest for when we undressed. Blasphemies against Venus were rent.
The evening air laps thick about. The stagnant moat that Tiffuages claims. As dusk now slips away. Where taught to run, the rotten tongue. Of a hotter Götterdämerung.
One might see in Mina. My disease. But it is She who has infected me. For all eternity.... . As the sun slips the tearaway stars. Into the scented scheme of night.
Libertina Grimm. Howitzer glare and spitfire blade. Wooed by Dresden serenades. Her soundtrack now a bombing raid. Bored of Vaudeville. . God was six days sober.
The needle in the eye of the hurricane. The poison in the font. The nail in the coffin of the profane. I am the lot. . Maniacal the fire. That weaves inside my soul.
All Saints Day, the taint of rain. Blood and mud and thunder all the same. To those who close their ranks to Gille's men. . Bricqueville, Prelati and De Sille.
Carrion my name. For those who choose to mouth the curse. A tragic serenade. With Judas in my stride. The gothic halls of shame. Where statues coldly hold no worse.
We rise with the sun in the underworld. We suffer from a graveless name. We prise wide lids. And wounds with lips curled. Over teeth that have tasted shame.