exilio la cura di questa disturbo mortale io sono il tu o dio exilio trop souvent je me dit poète trop souvent mes mots m’écrasent trop souvent je me dit poète trop souvent mes mots m’étranglent

coming to terms with disowning my faith abandoning morals just to escape into a world where I control my vision of violence I can behold burden of fear, hope disappears God’s cold shoulder casts a shadow to think I was once repulsed by my deepest desires I can now freely pick innocence from it’s field of flowers her fresh bulb plucked before it expires sweet seraph to myself in our city’s final hours burden of fear, hope disappears there will never be justice, no remorse over time for unrequited love will forever be blind there’ll never be justice, no remorse over time for unrequited love is blind burden of fear, every hope you have disappears

forever apologizing for my misinterpreted will it goes without saying but I miss you still I pushed aside anxiety to write you this letter from the desk of my deathbed timing couldn’t be better I recall those nights I held you long past curfew just to ensure a feeling of safety after the passing of time I wonder if you still hate me my iceberg awaits and my end is near but before I go I’d like to make one thing clear even miles away I still love you more everyday with everyone around me passing away keep a shred of us in a tangible state for our reunion may never be our fate I still dream of you every single night as if we were never apart had I known what I know now there may have never been a start I can’t image treating my worst enemies the way I treated you when you said let’s just be friends my body went cold right through not a single call, just deafening silence in the face of loss I was violent I was defiant fuck me, I failed you I’m worthless scum on your shoe kick me when I’m down for this I deserve for myself I felt I need to preserve some sense of righteousness I thought I was owed the worst side of me you have been showed I can’t apologize enough for the hate I dealt or the lack of love you must’ve felt the last thing I remember was you saying this didn’t feel right I cut you down from there with words as my knives I know that what I say isn’t worth the breath I spend I don’t require hope I’ll fight it to the end if you gave me your heart I’d probably break it my life is yours, take it take it

believe or not believe at all no vacancy in the terminal ward oran lance the abscess with a double-edged sword put faith in the lord and you will fall oran suffering as common as the common cold and you will suffer till you’re scared and old oran pensive argument that waits and sees this rat infested city will forever bleed oran the fear of capture through my days a hope hung from the rafter’s stage finish my last meal and kick the chair “rentrez, je suis pendu” if you dare join the resistance against the terminal fate there is no truth in its path of destruction do not fear contagion do not drop your fists do not hide from extermination do not give in do not dream of a better tomorrow do not dwell on personal sorrow do not follow your life is yours to covet your friends will perish your family will perish everyone you know will eventually perish just as everyone before chalk drawn across for goodness and trust there is no difference in murder and lust passive lives with nothing more still find redemption at their core oran

I am the bearer of God’s will. Every morning I wake with a raw taste in my mouth, natural and untouched by the hands of superficial practices. I cleanse myself in prayer. At the foot of my bed, I plead for deliverance. I run a cold cloth over my body. I anoint my head with the fragrance of ghosts. When I let the smock fall over my head, when I dress in the holy drapery of my profession, I open my eyes to the darkness, then the light when it’s weight comes to rest on my shoulders. Every day when I pass the cemetery I think of what the dead must know. I put faith in their awareness and await for what comes. The death toll rises and the flames follow consuming their pestiferous bodies — no new graves are dug. God’s forgiveness only goes so far and I can see now that we’ve taken his kindness for granted. In my sermons, I remind those in attendance that they brought this upon themselves. A black shadow has been cast over our sleeping town and we must rise to face our destiny. We live everyday in the wake of God’s diseased breath. Yes, there are those that continue to fight against his inevitable will and I say to them: “Stop wasting your time. I am well aware of the hope you share but it’s only misplaced faith in the role individuals play in their fate. Let the might of his wrath cleanse you of your forbearance so that you will reach an enlightened state.” From household to household I travel bestowing atonement to the dying. I find catharsis in the retelling of their carnal passions and emptiness in my absolutions. I hold on to the words as if their weight were enough to crush me. It is a corruptive duty and I fear that I cannot cope with this gripping fantasy that continues to taunt me. I walk into a room to give the last rite and see the gnawed remains of innocence on a sweat-soaked, infected bed. The child of beauty opens her eyes and smiles weakly. Her angelic face is untouched by the horrid disease while her neck and her body are filled with laced sores that leak puss and blood. Annabelle, pure and innocent. Her eyes open again, her lips part, and when she calls me father I am filled with anger and lust. I make gestures over her slender body and hear the emptiness of my incantations. It is a terrible lust, a jealous lust, that I cannot consume her like this disease. I wait for her dying breath to close her eyes. When I brush the side of her face with my hand her rosy lips are still moist. I turn and in the corner an anti-plague nurse stands with a body bag, ready to bring the beauty to her dear incineration. I hold such hate for this useless, sinful creature ready to combat God’s will. Poor Annabelle, an innocent rampaged lamb suffering while this imbecile stalks around with her useless uniform and her body bags. In a fit of rage I take the bag from her grip and cover her face with my hand. She struggles and falls to the foot of the child’s bed. I pin her under my weight. As I consume her, I imagine Annabelle’s alabaster face and the comfort of illusion brings her again in full, her scent filling up beneath my grasp, her frail warm body pressed against the floor. I crush her like those words crush me, like those empty incantations that bring about death quickly or slowly. Her body becomes acquiescent as my disease consumes her. God presents her to me, again, and I accept.

fire bearer walk with me bring heat and destruction to this philistine community it thrives on lust and infidelity fire bearer walk with me the swarm sweeps through without leaving a trace de la peste qui s’étend que la peur prend son temps expressing opinions their voices will crack the bodies pilling precisely on track the burials fall under the flood of corpses praying for death instead of divorces dans un cycle qui s’arrête nous ne sommes plus les maitres de la peur qui s’étend que la peste prend son temps propagate the panic in our chest with the burden of death we’ve been blessed propagate the panic in our chest striking down enemies complacent and meaningless you deserve shit all of a sudden there was me destined to defile their dynasty all of a sudden there was me a fatalist without fatality all of a sudden there was me destined to defile their dynasty all of a sudden there was me a fatalist without fatality

cannot be a positive addition to your life unless you thrive on grief and strife not a partner in crime but a hostage in denial until she testifies of my horrors at my trial despair and stress can describe the mess to which I must confess I’m not whole or holy burning the bridges that I cross in my dreams my vision of beauty is diseased there’s no pleading out of what I’ve done I’ve opened the floodgates and drowned under a wave of sorrow and narcissism in the eyes of our lord unforgiven the road to perdition is paved with good intentions slowly break down her walls of security betrayed her safe world of compelling continuity a break in the gears of a well-oiled spectacle rearranging your feelings to become unpredictable unwelcome penance for crimes committed a written apology crudely submitted I can’t talk my way out of this one I am unforgiven, I am trusted by no one hate is just an old me burning the bridges that I cross in my dreams my vision of beauty is diseased there’s no pleading out of what I’ve done I’ve opened the floodgates and drowned under a wave of sorrow and narcissism in the eyes of our lord unforgiven the road to perdition is paved with good intentions