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Slit their throats where they sleep,
The Submitters moan like whores
When fulfilled is their struggle,
If their murderers words in stone.
From bleak, desolate Desert-Shadows
Come war-dance bleak, desolate souls
Already aridity of thought
Has won too much, the pulse quickens...

Self-hate, a God-seed and rite
Ghosting the tree-sperm of ritual
Drink not the rivers of the known
But the child-suitors' words in mouth.

With perfect hatred, enemies and worth
They breath in razors and blackblood.
Meaningless repetitions in backrooms
Kneeling, the world as the anti-art.

I cut out their eyes for sight,
I cut out their tongues for speech,
I cut out their ears to hear
I cut out their lungs for breath
I ate of their mind to know.
There is an honesty in death.

God is Great in the desert.

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