Besedila: Phoenixpyre. Spectrum. Terror As An Aphrodisiac (Crimson Lullabies).

I am a newborn in her succubus maternity ward, wide-eyed and trembling at the caress of opportunity. We are sleeping on calliope absinthe and painted-grin lovers. I have tasted those graveyard lips and I have breathed the impacted tears. Her eyes are cataracts, a red as deep as Easter ribbons. Her flesh is the starkness of weary desert walls. The follicles writhe and breathe like mirage oceans in the pariah forge. The meathook dances and savors the taste of cheekbone, and I'll draw canyons from crevices through the epidermal earth. Hemorrhaging is an ether of the purest origins, an unjudged pocket of night in the streaks of dawn. A choked sob and a shudder cry out, "A lineage has been founded on this morning of ascension." I've impaled our memories on that dull glare in your eyes