My guilt don’t pause lathes in the lionhead handbag factory…
don’t stop no shovels at the virgin boy refinery, actually.
This guilt is pure,
like biting gold coins at the company store,
but not too lightly,
this gruesome toothy guilt of mine is mighty.
This guilt of mine would have arrows in my eyes…
this guilt of mine can’t turn abortions into wine.
Fires had its way with all my building,
it’s an every kind of goodbooks angels absence guilting.
No, this guilt of mine
is no years old,
and young like before you decompose.
This guilt is marked with red,
a stairway to where it hurts,
a fearsome church built from black
stone and the body of hopeless bricks…
and this guilt thicks
gagging whole sewer pipes
when its heaviness drips…
but it’s hard waters don’t put out shit.

Lyrics submitted by Malhavic

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