Wave Goodbye.

As usual,

tonight

I am there,

with casual fingers coursing through my casual hair.

With nails

being buried

beneath my spine.

Oh, the blackness is sublime (and it's all mine).

And I wonder just where you were,

when the blackness in my head turned upside down.

Oh, the ceilings became the floor (waved goodbye),

and nothing has been the same since then.

I see you turn

away from

me,

and I bear the curse. I bathe my head in treachery

to wash away

the sin

of my pride,

my silent silence (inside). 

And I wonder (with longing hands on my longing head)

oh, what it's like to be a little more together in the head.

I find myself as a supplement,

a sacrifice for a sacrament.

But what my soul was found lacking in:

that was bountiful in you.

Ishtar of the Inner West.

Cool kisses

beneath my skin.

I spread my wings,

you sink within

the storm that rages

between my thighs.

The colour bleeds

from out my eyes.

Because I settle on the beast I find in you,

my dark and brooding monster.

Thieves (in silence, 

that shell my harbour) 

feel so turgid 

in lustful ardour. 

A raunchy burlesque 

cabaret: 

I take them home.

I fuck all day. 

I fornicate with the florid flurry assembled,

in a manner that would make Venus blush.

I fuck the elements,

with my quickening breath give birth

to the stars, to the moon, and to the Earth.

The liquid cosmos is pulsing alive,

the micro and macrocosmic

are becoming intertwined.

Jars (early song version)

I covered my foot with mud the other day. 

It discordantly took me away 

to the time when I played in the soil -

a little girl, encasing things in jars. 

My remorse hangs a horse 

(it's the bookie's odds that'll kill you).

Like a race-track nose-bleed,

this is a drug that will still you

In my belly 

(sharp and poison'd.

Deep inside me, 

poisoned stars). 

How'd I earn these empty shoes I walk in? 

By putting things in jars.

What do we think we keep in the jars then? 

Spiders, or a sharp.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

The losers of our heart.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

Those that simply aren't.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

All with which we start:

black, pagan concepts.

The cocoon (or shell)

might fall apart

from the start,

and will never grow in this place. 

Imaginary photographs

on a plastic shrine.

Well my god's got his,

but I still don't get mine.

What do you think we call those in jars then?

The poisons of our heart.

Where do you think we keep all those jars then?

Furthest from our heart.

What do you think we keep in the jars then?

Jars in jars in jars.

What do you think the jars keep in jars then?

That of which they're part:

black, pagan concepts.