Flying lord, God of all times
Swept in rage as we left it
As its gold whips our minds
And fierce tongue scratches our eyes
Wake me from my sleep,
And lead me gently (on my way) to hell
And it would rain in waves
Or in clouds of ashes
And wash off all taste
And creep into my spotless heart
My tears in a tin box
Bubbling, seething, covered with flies
Its grace leaves me tender
My eyes, wrapped in plastic
Swarming, curdling, wretched inside
Its beauty makes me blind
The sky turns vaster
It rains in flesh
Its elegance wakes my slumber
And turns me into hate