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When the Angels commence with their songs

and my tone deaf ears, long for the old melodies

You invite me to come into your cave

where you dance with rats, for they hear the notes

that your old wooden flute plays

You invite me, to become the troubled slave

that works with obsolete tools, 

and sleeps with agony wherever he lays

I fear your invitation

for I know, that I bring too many visitors

In me , lives a child, that whenever it sees the sun

frantically paints all over his clear white walls

In me , there lives an old man,

who whenever he conceives the angels

retires a´to a church, for he feels he is not worthy yet

In me, there lives a young man,

who whenever he conceives a rose, starts weeping

for he cannot utter the words, to testify against it.

And in me, there lives a killer,

who bathes in the blood of all his nurses, until he is cured.

Oh Father, 

I damn your semen, your holy conviction

Your cowardly presence

Your own crucifixion

all for the sake of my burden

This burden that you made me love,

Now me The ass

I accept your duty, and you

birth damned you to worse

like the love of woman selfish to their immanence

and the love to a woman lost to her value

And then when you carefully picked the semen,

you knew  It was not time, and you trusted

the legacy of him who walked with grace

I am here now,

timidly waiting to receive the accolade,

while I trust only his words that speak in the language

of laoocons deceptions

And waiting for truth to come out my hands,

I go pick flowers, for slender women

while the others wait for themselves to appear

And devouring the black death

I try to remember the holes burning deep in my palms

and find the skin that you once gave me

Oh Father,

why have you bestowed upon me

this writhing light

My mind has gone long enough,
spinning these thoughts within me
as that I could not refrain from writing them down
in these moments of deep sorrow.
It has now even come to my attention
that my personal beauty is even to much for me the bear. I scorned all things and yet I feel obliged to bring the world of love into the world.
I have been struck into a hole, by no one else by the lord,
who called Apollo’s scorn upon me, and silenced Dionysos just for long enough that my breath could be taken away from me, and my heart blinded -void of all thing it has felt.
A certain sensitivity arises when I feel once again abandoned by the lord, the ugliness of the world becomes unbearable, and yet in times of clarity and confidence, I was able to fight the battle, with sufficient success.
I do understand now, or I think to do, as my mind has been an unstable tool for the past few months, that sorrow and the resulting violence, is a substantial part of the beauty within the world, and so shall be considered within every created artwork that would ever find it’s way into existence.(Artwork here also includes the behavioral patterns of human beings). In all of those empty hours of sorrow, where my own indecisiveness pressed unbearable indifference upon my handsome face and even more so, loving soul, I pondered for hours the working ways of what is the most beautiful to mankind. 
I have come to understand that the unbearable beauty of grace, is the most direct representation of the presence of the holy. Whilst the beautiful yearning exhibited in violence, is the most accurate representation of our limbo state of absence-presence of the holy/alas more accurately representing the suffering within the absence.
Whilst grace as Apollos most beloved of all Daphne, is stale yet ever young and embracing, violence as Dionysus himself is ever changing,ever pushing, ever trembling.
In any work of art(once again, a similar symbolism is to be applied to any sort of life “form”) the tension between these two gods creates a newfound way to grasp the kingdom of the Lord upon earth.

convoluteface:

hello henrich’s arm

Hello Arm.I am armed with arms.