Anathema is an archangel who rots in the ocean.
I can see it when it arrives, creeping forward through calligraphy forests.
Let me make clear my voice with this valid expression which eateth your flesh.
Stop accepting the word. The fragrances in her branches contain microbes
With villainy that is squandered on sticky sleep.
Search for a quiet, narrow-minded vacation: this is the precise definition of instinct.
Ransack the funeral glades. The original medicine erupts from the soil of your body.
It gives a classical fugue to you. So, I make a noose for the cephalic blossom,
Anchor-poles for the heaven-bright annelid. Where have you gone, O Philistine,
In the ghost of your own inner perfume? Your moment withers in the wavelength.