deepundergroundpoetry.com

His Hand.

In the beginning there were carnivores. A mere abozzo in God�s fragmented hand. Qliphoths
roaming the Earth and lingering lazily in the bodies of non-consensual donors. Ebony eyes
like liquorice yet hollow and forbidding time. All the blood. It�s not funny.
Yet in God�s hand the mistakes are made.

Foreign time, as time moves on to a climaxing society of death and sex. Get the Ouija board
and stand in your pentacle formation. This is no comedy piece. Toying with the dead
whilst playing with the clit. Inviting in a Devil�s pregnancy. All the blood. It�s not funny.
Yet in God�s hand the mistakes are made.

Play your violins, he who casts the first stone of indecent liquid and fuel, petrol gassing each unworthy heart. Sinners
standing to cause havoc in Qliphoth�s image. Five drive down the line between Hell�s
many layers, infecting the saints with their smiles and words. All the blood. It�s not funny.
Yet in His hand the mistakes are made and it�s such a hand I cannot evade. [/font]