The Art of Humming, or The God of Now

You face your own breath on a woman's neck, on her damned soul. Maybe your weak throat can deliver some divine justice.
There are notes you only hit when you improvise. The all eternal spiritual blues.
That tone where every human feels afraid and sad. D minor. That is where we all live now.

Her scent will never leave me. Her pussy god will deliver me to heaven. Her beast will make me human.

The art of ego. The art of singing. The art of making yourself heard. The choke we feel when we shout. The freedom you feel when you loose yourself within your mind.

Fuck everything, I will allways rocknroll with words. I will devout myself to the god of Now. The god of nerve and weakness. The god of orgasm and of friendfight. I will always be the seed of free tragedy.

I will live until I die. A hero's death, forgotten. A sweet nothing that lives briefly in the souls of the creatures that understand me.