I was digging around my notebooks today...

[bmfistheone]

and found some of my old poetry. Some of it's pretty good so I thought I'd put one up...call me an art fag...I got rounds to spare.

God comes in the guise of the needle,
the only peace that knows no pain.
Pierce the flesh, Trackmark stigmata.
The oneness of the serpent and the
messiah
The truth of the darkness that Gods
inhabit, sulking in corners where
they cannot be found.
As God finds my flesh willing they
fill my body with nothing, destroy
all visage of pain and suffering, so for
40 days and 40 nights the prophet
does not exist and becomes nothing but
extacy...
The rapture fills my veins, the secrets
are mine, and suffering does not matter anymore.

As God starts to walk away, he begins to
forsake his prophet, begins to allow the
world to close around until it again
swallows him.

Today at 3 am the new prophet pushes needles
into his skin. God speaks to him in between
vomiting and senselessness.

The body wastes, the soul withers, the
mind only knows the horse that pounds through
his veins.

Eyes half-closed, the prophet touches heaven
and steps through the gate.
Salvation refuses him.
No damnation even touches the self destruction.
No deity or serpent will control him,
he barely exists.
No truth but the needle.