Fin
Jul 30, 2017 · 1 min read
Satan beckons all the damoiseaux of Anima Sola,
Come hither,
Pluck your ivory, sage-soaked antlers and,
Bake them in the mortuary of everything that’s never been,
Nor will ever be
Like you, like me, like Maj,
And all the unmade mixtapes blasting caucasian covers of Holy African chants.
Everything evil must come to an end,
You’d hint
Only the good remains,
Dull, uninviting,
Like the au-dela.
So, Maj, Orin,
And you my dear,
Open your collective mouths and strip away the synaptic complexe,
The synergy,
The Gods we baked from blood and gruel and earth and liquid chocolate cum
The panoply is dead.
