Blood of the Funeral

High on the flesh
Of the knell and the psalm
Drunk on the blood
Of the funeral
Ridden by lust
And sepulchral thirst
I come dressed in hunger
And the trauma of birth

Sun of maggots
Decay is my light
My breaths are all anthems
To the moth and the mite
The whore is dead
I fall down to pray
And to celebrate death
As the God of our faith

There it is again
That putrid smell
Could belinda have been right?
But then again, so is hell

Rotting bosom
Her stench is my church
Her shell shall serve as pulpit
Until reclaimed by the earth

Lifeless altar
A fresh cross of bones
Her cold flesh shall be my voice
Until the worms bring her home

High on the breath
Of the slip and the fall
Fuelled by the yolk
Of the burial
Black and blue creed
On a hymnal of skin
To re-school the clergy
That to breathe is to sin
A song through the holes
Where the eyes have been
To convince the council
That to die is to win

High on the flesh
Of the knell and the psalm
Drunk on the blood
Of the funeral
On wings of ash
And wild pallbearer mirth
Soaring on the cool breeze
Of yet another stillbirth

There it is again
That livid hue
The wind is growing stiffer
But then again, so are you