The Nihilist - Seven: Blood On the Moon

Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting black light down upon the harbours where ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic memories still the beating heart. Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope and zoom into the heavens, ruptured vessels crack the milky white; for all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing and absorbing love and soul, hoarding with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps the diamond, reimburses coal. On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills the craters and the fossil seas, scars the surface dust like crazy paving, packs the vacuum deserts with disease; on the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising, still as tombstone script, cold, implacably cast as death's dominion, to love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.