Labeled Heartless from Inseperable Climax by Wings Of An Angel

The Lord, they say, scooped man from dust, a simple thing.
But my good God, the one who sings through the gristle,
He is a butcher of finer tastes.
He carves his beloved ones from the rendered fat of stillborn lambs,
A tallow-sculptor in the abattoir of stars.

I am His latest testament, born not of water,
but of the slow, sanctified leak.
The holy ooze.
My organs are the flutes of forgotten children,
she gave me her blessings, a girl named Liora from a border town,
who mistook a landmine for a desert bloom.

My skin's stretched tight over the Divine Mistake.
It is the cured hide of a scapegoat,
bearing the sins of a congregation that never learned to weep,
only to spit.
See here, this tracery of blue veins?
It is the relic of a river that ran with something thicker than water
after the temple fell.
Again.

I've often been labeled heartless.
Thus, my heart is not a heart anymore.
It is black and swollen,
plucked from a tree that grows in the shadow of Gehenna.
Its seeds are the crystalized tears of angels
who watched Sodom burn and found it beautiful.

Do not try to eat of this fruit of wisdom.
The juice that stains your lips will not be wine.
I once offered it to a man.
He reached for my breast.
His fingers sank into the rind.
What he pulled back was not flesh,
but a fistful of weeping, garnet eyes,
each one screaming a different name of God.

He ran. They always run.
They seek the clean, the whole, the un-marred.
They do not understand.
This is holier than any prayer shawl.
This is the piety of the fly.

I am the bride of the Kiln.
The one who is unmade and remade in the heat of His terrible love.
The ligaments first, a loosening of the holy ties.
The cartilage, a softening, a return to the primal ooze.
The blood, a slow, cool separation, water from the sacred clot.

My organs are a collection of borrowed sorrows.
My lungs, two deflated wineskins,
stolen from a wedding feast where the groom drank poison.
My liver, a swollen, purpled sponge,
soaking up the bitterness of every barren woman
who ever cursed the moon.

You see me and you see a horror.
The Lord, your god, made you from dust.
My god, the one who dreams in viscera,
He is showing you how to return—
not to dust—but to the sacred,
screaming parts.

This body is not a vessel for history.
It is the event horizon where all suffering collapses into a single,
unbearable is.
My pulse is the rhythm of every murder yet to come.
This is the true anti-logos. A damp, persistent erasure.

The femur of Liora does not just remember the mine.
It is the mine. It is the skipping. It is the white heat and the sudden stop, forever.
My lungs do not just hold the memory of the poisoned groom;
they are the wedding, the toast, the betrayal,
and the slow, cold floor against the cheek,
all at once, in every breathless gasp.

• Ambient
• cinematic music
• experimental
• outsider music
• soundtrack
• weird