With arsons she ravishes!

("This is the motif of our vanishing point.
See this largo!
In the middle of this giant cold wasteland,
a god is buried, dead in my trunk.
We will all sleep under the homeless moon, darling.
We will all glide along with the swarthy desert-train...
dying slowly upon the lonesome culm as we rasp out;
"This is the end of everything."
Eagles fly upon the picture of heaven.
Severing the doors, and what is left.
"Nothing but lunacy."
--This is the jazz up, people;
nothing is left,
there´s nothing to bury,
and nothing to live for.")

Like stars falling, besprinkling in bloom.
Alas! The hyacinth lets a mile go.
And the porphyry on the backstop of our homes,
soon enough will be an atrophy and die alone.
The solo lune and the rats take over in prosper.
Draw our death. Draw our death. Draw our death.
Draw our lives. Draw our nether regions.
Blench from our quiet white lines,
make them black as your heart.
Seethe in our hearts!
Keep shooting at the stars,
make them black as your heart.
Blown with a corona half-naked,
dispersing.
The weald is building fires,
our supine walls burning in wooden aircrash.
And the captain of our wreck is dead.
The captain of our wreck is dead.
And the captain of our wreck is dead
The captain of our wreck is dead.
You are the one who i want to spend Hades with.

This is a dark latitude.
Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage!
Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage!
Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage!
Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage!
Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage! Wreckage!

The low-spirited pigeon dancing
the dead waltz in a quiet alpine room,
playing jazz under the full esoteric moon.
And the frames in the macabre lounge,
they are the sons of the capital floor show,
where bullets flew amongst the fallen angels.
where they waited for so long
in a divine death warrant,
--celestial burials.
Close to the aslant boulevards,
over the epoch,
in the doldrums,
playing dead.
And she incinerates our bourders,
shelves the constancy;
while playing the dead concord,
dancing in extremis pas.
She etherizes our hearts...
she etherizes our hearts into a doleful dew.
And she stepped over the bottlenecks,
singing for our lugging, subsisting our being
just to lull our steps again.
And again we die.
And we grovel,
paralleling with a cognition of incubi.

And again we die.
And again we pontificate the erosive earth.

And again we die.
And again we die.
And again we die.
No Heavens to save our lives.

Lo! Woe!
You, who ails us in our dire doom.
Alas! Nay is our name!
Await for the dirge queen to sheen.
Listening.
One grain at a time.
Hark at how we drip,
in this hourglass,
of time.

(And again we die...
Rearwards!)