Let The Blackness Roll On

niantiel
The ravens of death fly forth
to the city of the dead, in the
place where those who build
filth and groan at the building
thereof did once reside.

Have fun with the qlippoth
have fun with niantiel, my
oldest friend, after all
have fun eating a feast
in the midst of putrid corpses
fucking in Berlin in 1945
while the Russians draw near
going "to the club" in 1985

getting up close and personal
with that oldest, dearest,
and certainly best friend of us all

death in many senses, not just
physical, but merely a will to
escape
but we both know that that
doesn't happen

Escape all you want, but there's not enough
pot in this world, not enough sex
(probably not enough vic)
to save you
from that slow, swirling drain
circling and circling around
to a point-nadir

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