Meshuga's Cross

the subject is madness

"I really want to see you, lord,
really want to be with you.
But it takes so long, so long,
my lord" - George Harrison, closet Krishna

Come to me, sweet lord,
in anything but gears,
and I will give you blood...
I will ease your tears

Bring me your dark and deformed;
your holocaust foundlings,
your wrist-gash martyrs,
and requiem saints bleeding,
to breathe freedom from
their white-walled sanctity

Oh: "Have you seen
the frightened ones
in their subway caves?" - Pink Floyd

Yea, I am of those recycled souls,
Meshuga's guards,
Elliott Smith's twitching battalions...
we who could not die
to make disguises fall away
being more inclined
to gently let them stay.

They told me to look after
the blind old monk...
but I was as an intoxicated elephant
and could not remember...
it wasn't my traffic anyway

I have shot the arrow over my house
and hurt my brother:
my love is for Frankenstein,
Rasputin, the doomed but noble czar.
"People aren't saints:
no people just are;
they wanna feel like they count:
they want to ride in their own car."

Forgive me: Elijah, Moloch, for my sins...
for the angelic old buddhist monk
I forgot, intoxicated,
for too much opium...
for my lack of interest in publishing houses.
Also, I have seen ladies of the night,
and misplaced my soul,
though you will see it
ghost-like
in the lonely factory window,
in burnt-out glorious Thailand
and scattered simple, forgotten places
of the Earth

show me where a flame
still grimly burns,
where life is its own cause:
in bread-lines,
in sanctified Ashland...
"let us not speak falsely
for the hour is getting late." - Bob Marley
This cup is bitter
but I will bear it.

Resurrect this barren
white desert soul...
I will remember you,
for I am father satellite.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TiNxWylt6ew

behold, the angel anarchica