Painted in Bad,Bad Blood

Can blood lean?
I am.
I am bad, bad
motherfucker.
I am mean.
Blood runs
fast…

Holy iron is pyroclast.
Unholy blood is

today… born clean.

I am bad,
motherfucker.
I am.
I am mean.

Can blood taste the hailing fear?
Can a mortal knob feel the solution
at the midnight gates of darling involution?

I jump into corrupted better tomorrow.
I am a menace, painted,
planted, without apathetic white colour.
My words speak in black technicolour.
Every worthy street feels and breathes, narrow.
The white raven is the voice and

the pillar of the new golden sparrow.

Can blood lean
when the amplifying rod is the running promise of violent deer?
Jump into the centre of what your pretty soul can hear.
Leap into the closed loop of your own volatile meal.
Is it just me, is it only you… my dear?

Can our blood, wild, wildest blood, lean?

When bad circus and full moon,
just like fallen strangers, disappear,
when you stand on your own apple,
do you taste the poisoned pear?
Is the waving sword
finally a floating spear?

Can blood lean?

I am.
I am bad,
motherfucker.
I am mean.
Blood runs
fast…

Blood is so, so…
magically clean.

I am bad,
bad
motherfucker.
I am.
I am mean.

Can sweet, sweet
blood taste the
memory of the
ornamental gear?

Can all your vain fears
just disappear
when the souleater
is close,
when his
foul taste
flies like
a precious hawk
near?

What is the road that leads into the triggering mouth of fatherless fear?
What is emptiness, without motherless emotions but surgically clear,
when hallowed night is childless dinner
and freest moonlight is the weightless vanguard, burning appeal?

Now…
when the wings of death
are so close,
so… tragically
dear.

Now,
will you,
could you,
just
disappear?

Rotten apple can never be celebrated pear.