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Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation.

A form of arithmetic christening, where mathematics empirically deems me both the sinner and the saint. Where I don't have to bend the laws of dogma to achieve such an antithesis. I want heavenly glory and lustful sin. I want to praise Dionysus in a naiad cove and fall to my knees in a pentecostal church. I want the lord to embrace me and for the devil to fuck me. I want drought to become me, to kiss my sunken cheek and deem me worthy of drainage. I want to be the perfect victim to every divinely endowed force of nature. I want for The Flood to come again, and jump off the Ark of my senseless comfort, to a brave, gallant doom. The doves will mourn me by staining themselves with the blotted red ushering out of their hearts. They will fall by the thousands.

I don’t want to be reborn, for I will live forever.

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

He is passion, etched desire, Unacquainted with a sun or moon Familiar with the pale fire That is often gone too soon A day without my love in arms Is waiting for the sun’s expansion That’s taking pro

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