| There, where fear as an ardent dick
|
| Enters the fathomless vagina of superstitious
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| There, where some are creators
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| And others are destructors
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| There is consumer existence in this
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| Acquired and artificial instincts:
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| The black universe of my indifference
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| White virginity of my impartiality
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| Preconceived holy ointment shedding
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| Covered with hoar frost hypochondria
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| My compassion inseminated by macrophages
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| Dim reflection in tile
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| All roads lead to morgue, grinding of ungreased hinges
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| Modest monastery, purgatory for the mortal flesh
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| I can predict the past, reading ripped guts
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| The grace is deeper than the mother’s womb
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| Hopeless pathology, smell of formalin
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| You won’t be my guest for long, my silent wanderer
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| I will take you apart piece by piece
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| I was looking for your soul
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| But found only dead organic matter
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| I found only the disfigured traces
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| Of life while searched for your soul |