Personal Jesus

I hate myself for the wrong reasons, for failing to be a God, whatever that means
I should hate myself for all the cruelty and violence inflicted to myself during my training
Actually that’s the part I enjoy
My superego sculpts me like a werewolf from Pompeii,
my id overthrows empires in the long night of sensation,
while the ego sleeps on a bed of knives, smoking cigars on a black powder pillow
Descend from the cross, let the temple crumble to pieces, let your disciples drown in confusion, do not disturb the sweet sleep of the world
Your flesh is made from terror and torment runs through your veins
You are pain and everyone around you feeds with small drops of this liquid gold
You could save a mental hospital with your fragrance
You could resurrect corpses with your breath
But you will never be saved, never know life again
Because all the death of the world rots in your heart
Hell is our home and we have neighboring cells