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...and i've been changed by this night rain, so estranged drag weary down the haunted sands of time; this is my life's intaglio when the synchronistic cliches seem too ubiquitous i go diving a classic seance via haruspicy but when finding all my necromantic sacrifices -- their blood has been diluted such milky veins wash, a rushing run -- i cry as they seep insanely draining throughout my apocalypse. riverrapids of bright bluewhite in my bitchblack thoughts indeed; the ink of my apocrypha yet even this chaotic delirium which i have wrought seems somewhat estranged O! i seek a heart's blood -- with a desire pure and undeluded into which i wish to etch my dreamname's intaglio and slice open this crimson mourning; perform this eldritch fated haruspicy yet despair! somehow these days, it's just ridiculous... *now i have seen armageddons rage ablaze, just some many grill-barbecues ubiquitous black iron ash alters of carcoal briquette gods burning in summer-lawn-chair-sales apocalypse mesquite smoke entrails -- drip and sizzle -- (a tasty new haruspicy!) surburban saturdays fresh-mowed dwellings stare deranged from the glow of television labotomies -- a brand -- tinpan-brainfried intaglio skip a jumpdance slaghterhouse shuffle, in ever-deepening credit-line masses; so deluded.* under confusion's reigh i wander and wander as a court jester so deluded... wonder at wonders in the still static stagnate pools of glow and LO! ...ridiculous! with this god's blind eye and my rune intaglio i live to have read the pages -- and scribed a thousand and one more -- of this apocrypha, and to remember each; for one reason, for all time; and it's deranged. always weeping, always weeping, it divines e'ery creepy haruspicy. Jeepers! open guts spill forth before me, and in each sickly wet fold i read; haruspicy. after which pours forth the milksblood of the son, so diluted... try and shake this shadow i fear, ...so estranged and one more modern miracle each day becomes ubiquitous but i'm not surprised, nor do i grow weary of every evening's apocalypse i feel the groove of each judgement day in this new heart; a crystal funk intaglio. so i walk on this life, like the spine of a fine occult tome and cast into it -- The Printer's Intaglio. carving out a Name in this Age, in the trails of my haruspicy inscribe the secret words i took, and title my stolen book, _Apocrypha_. yet dreaming still of a hope a'gleaming when dawn comes streaming, undeluded . i'll wrap it up tight, in my fool's bag of light -- coloured all ridiculous! -- and so changed, again by some different rain, this same night, i'm still estranged... this sculpture scripts an ubiquitous apocalypse -- deranged intaglio palimpsest -- sinister traces diluted from this, my tainted haruspicy. © ink'n rimes, 1999
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