Current 93 - A Soft Voice Whispers Nothing

the pale dry, yet wet pasty skin
of the face of my madness.
reflects nothing but the darkness
of the inside of saturn.
spinning creakingly
the parade of time which knows
naught but blood and density
stone and lust
the release of the mob
the shriek of the hag of
nature
which we all must follow
but not too close
to tread on the heels of
the mother is
to welcome in nothing but
an endless fall
into eternal regret