Slaughterhouse

I

In this antique party room
We are cursed
Melo-tones
Purples
Accidental greens escape
This black memory hurts
My eyes are burnt
This fuzzy stuff is lighting up

Are there bodies in this dark?

Who is watching us
corrupt this junk?

Where is this
Slaughterhouse?

II

The sabbath day is strong
We war again by wading sidelong
in the bleached blood, covered
by an ancient song, written on acacia wood,
adapted for a modern mood

The words are written within reach:

Bow
Pray
Teach

But in the mirror by the door:

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