all the zombies come out at night to shine like dismal stars the spectacle of youth with venom in its veins there are children turning on tonight who won’t see the light of day they weigh their gear against their souls to touch the face of god in some minor cut rate heaven reserved for whelps and strays
the liquor of the poppy as pure as mothers milk is an instant panacea for whatever spirits plague you but it’s the death of inspiration and the herald of despair tonight the dead are dancing to
their funeral songs it’s invitation
only a secretive affair no-one sees their bacchanal and
no-one really cares
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