My flavor is the stuff of locusts. Hot chili firebrand spitting volcano
Teeth. Bleeding skies, sulpher mines… The foul breath of Satan’s favorite
Gutter worm. You feel me when I’m close — an ice wind of steel stilettos
Hammered in your spine. Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing forth and
Everything’s a mess. every posession you ever had — wrecked — lying at your
Feet. Telegrams that tell you God is dead piled high on the TV. The
Incessant TV. Burbling. Distorted. A cheesecake nun advertising 20 brands
Of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different languages. A gargoyle handjives for
The hard of hearing. Subliminals. Criminals. Phoney buisinessmen in thick
Rimmed glasses. Bad comedians. Laughing bags aping the Hallelujah chorus —
The forgotton version — out of key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting Man-Ray maggots! Dead maggots. My
Flavor’s a wound re-opening by surprise, green fishes eyes flowing out.
Wriggling things. Gelatinous. Still alive and screaming — out of key
(slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor’s a plunging elevator a
Millisecond before it hits the cellar. A cellar with mutated rats. Old —
Very old — lost teeth. Abortions. Garbage. So pungent it hums — out of
Key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor’s your flavor. Deep
Within you. Hidden. Waiting to get out…