Here starts.
My overmodulation, my metamorphosis in knife tip.
And this flight over these clouds that could turn into lit or sinister danse macabre: my flight over the clouds, essence of grey and the black, enemies of the Sun: you.
In case of...
You, archeress throwing sweetly these arrows...with your eyes covered by spectrums?
[did you know that an artist is blind to the world?]
because nobody sees what he sees: for example this lady all radiance in the skies, ruler of all the men's destinies.
She wants me mocking and violent, careless and impetuous; because she's a woman, and she only loves the warrior, the poet and the fucker...and that leaf in the wind called Sun.
...And I'll scream in a mysterious way, like an animal around you; cold, vulnerable, warm; and gonna mince myself in holographic essence, woman!
I.
yes, the most bad of the men:
loser/winner/criminal
disgusting/sinner/animal
So here, for you, I settle this my Hell at your feet...and laugh at him?
For you, I rip my entrails off, and offer them to you, to play with them among your polished nails.
Psst: if you were the goddess Astaroth incarnata, I should satiate my ardour in you, before being devoured.
But I, naked of fanfare, just I: I am a corner chastised by broken winds without you, just another leaf in the wind, like the Sun: you.
