Merry, you may be. For I am the flesh in your tounge. Create to yourself, images of these glass-eyed figures, and expose to me, your skin - whorish as ever. They speak to me, your pores, your veins, in a rush of melancholy. In a stream of misantrophy.
Remove the carpet, so I may be united with the shades of these.
Blind my eyes, still I will see - presence, visuality. I grant you my pale hands, still I will feel - shape, contoures.
Please leave. In me you wont find any pity, as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes - the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me. So, please leave. In here you wonВҐt find any pity. Tour kisses were as hell itself.
Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge. Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present. "So, hereby I rape thee."
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