Soft cell singing
Too many thoughts,
too many doubts:
my head a poison shape balloon,
filled with nightmare gore;
my body swollen with the kind of questions
army engineers turn into acts of war,
where dreams are raped and tortured
in the cold steel light of day.
My love,
come rescue me
and take away these mirrors
that became my universe.
Break the glass
and tear this blasphemous old skin
off lonely meat and bones
and burn these cancers that I grew and stored.
Be my New World lady;
be the sails that take me there;
be the wind and mermaid and the seagull song,
guiding me through every storm.
Be the rain and be the curtain clouds
that separate my soul from all the Heavens.
Be my vessel and Salvation,
feeding me with bits of dream and golden flesh.
Take me with you lady;
guide me in,
past the portals of your splendour,
deep inside your maelstrom warmth,
to the soft cell singing,
where no thought intrude,
where all is warm and wet and safe,
so close to dying angel glory.