Stained Monochrome Wings

Divine Collaboration of Two Suicide Angels

Written with Dakoda Strack

07-22-13

Both together,

our common feats

of sex had, drugs done and

suicide contemplated;

These are our sins and our crimes against God on high,

Indulgence divine; whatever it takes to die.

Down to the core,

to the root of all problems

ignored and

Inflamed

covered with poor-man's cocaine

and razor blades.

Under Godless black skies

I watched the red sun rise with broken blue eyes...

Exhume my heart and let the incision swell

For the curse of love has brought me a new vision of hell!

So I swore to that dark Idol, divine suicidal,

That never, in my pain,

Would that black venom, love, run coursing

Through my veins, again!

Darkness ensued;

more morbid mistrials and rivers of venomous blood.

Sever this sickness

we've felt and ensepulchred,

like wrists slashed.

To this, we saluted the drugs,

gluttony glorified,

a dramatized death,

attempted but the curtains closed,

lights dimmed, and silence fell.

Let us dance upon the graves, drown beneath the waves

Of a hundred thousand lost souls!

Now we'll indulge these illicit comforts

Just to fill the fucking holes

In a fatally flawed design!

Now this black venom, love, will run through

Your veins and make you mine!

Night's come to close; awake I still be.

Deranged insomnia, up all night

after grave-dancing.

Slicing through silken flesh to bleed away reminders

and move on from this

brand of blistering venom.

These incisions since healed,

reopened not by

the venom of another,

of yours

which bewitched me.

I've been brought all the pain I could ever need

And now I have, no more blood to bleed

So just take my heart instead!

Now we close our eyes to dream the insomniac's dream,

And we know we should already be dead!

Suicide Angels, we, my nymphetamine and me,

Cut our wrists to cut the chains that bind,

Now we do fly, alive and free,

Upon redeemed wings and far above the evil things.

We leave it all, leave it all behind!

These wings of sorrow,

were stained, cracked,

and mutilated like my body of

self-inflicted scars.

Once fallen, now born anew

with paper wings refurbished,

naive to venom.

Flight so foreign for so, so long.

Feeling flighty a time or two,

because it's so hard to aviate

with wings dismantled

you've since repaired.

Lipstick stains over scar tissue,

Like the drugs that once served to dull the pain

Of this life, this masquerade,

So now we sleep without the comfort of flame or razorblade...

Bedding, now;

sheets splattered with venom

of our love

and limbs

freshly acquainted.