The Rot is a favorite of mine
As deep as she’ll drag me
I’ll enjoy every stain
and end up carcass

This fleshy pleasure
Of cinnamon odours
And deadly reality
Shall still make me dream

To relish her till necrosing
My soul and spirit flied away
To adore her till mold grows
Am depraving to the point of laughing

Able to survive without her
But myself being bland
“This is more than fine”
Says she to my deformed face

Blue, white, red, crawling on my flesh
A perfidious smile after a belch
She but is engulfing me
Yet i shallnt flee

My ambivalent feelings
For this ambulant blight
Melt into ink in a pot
This’ll be my assigned fate

Minutes becoming hours
Second, the days of my torpor
From the damnation of her who submits kings
And thy shall be my parting gift

I infect them, soundless
The one troubling my nights
And wait with the boredom
Her midnight arrivings

I am but a mold
A stains on the walls
Of what we call society
Yet still loving

Doing what i cant think
Appreciating everything from her, ditching morality
Forgetting my name, society and spirit
I'll give up for those immoderate pleasures

To enjoy every mucus of her pores
My oxygen becoming phosphore
My shape entering hers
Every bud of my flesh blooming

Ah, this peptic hell
Of septic calamities
And caustic sadness
Cradle my cataleptic body

Swallowed by the Rot
My faltering corpse rupturing
To the fumes of her boiling guts
My oily body corrupting her

Body becoming the own fruit of my obsession
How could I oppose repression ?
Every drop of depression heading to her colon
And my body finally up to her digestion.




The Mold ! O this sweet pain
Arboring death, celebrating customs and signifying misfortune
So refined, solely touching those worthy
Carrying happily her evil

Dancing with the sad as death does with the plagued
Giving her beauty, similar to the aurora
To those only passion still breaths
And finally, even this one stops

Every indentations being perfect
Like her well-done benediction
Killing every happy emotions
This being price to share her vision

Stealing the ones drowning in rot
Sieging and winning against this plague
She save them a pectic ends
and offers them a poetic

O The Mold ! This beautiful horror !
Honoring every artist of rancor
Deversing her crest in my twisted hand
Awakening the genius and hibernating the idiots

Her gift rotting my eyes
Giving me hollows
Being blind to this disastrous world,
I’ll be the one creating new one

Hands falling, my arms letting me keep them
Grime, pain and ink becoming my blood
Helping me writing from my own body
A part of my now on every dead tree

To work until my veins burst
Till my worned desk becomes scarlet
My works chaining my neck to the ceiling
Every new pages lowering myself to the ceiling

Filling my brain of her flesh
Sharpening it to only see the bad
A long vaporous smile,
exchanged in a passionate kiss

My wounds blooming of flowers
Gloomy flowers able to scare off anyone
Arboring all of her helpless glory
“Exquisite” I say, glaring from my blackened eyes

My words spewing out in an organing mud,
Toxic to the naive, but with a charming resonance
Her noxious perfume, of a delicate aroma,
Enters my nose like a long centipede,

Her long robe orning bogish green,
her big sleeves scening her beautiful moss
And dark marveling molds
Compliments excellently her holed and cadaveric state

I wont even quit my bed
Read, sleep and write, staying close to this friend
Always twisted around my companion
I’ll follow her to the desert to the sea

Opening Champagne every time she come,
My sadness being a part of me
O The Mold, this beauty to die for
Let us celebrate it ! Before rotting…