Black fire
which does not burn
drowns each in the amnion's bliss.
Black fire
athwart the warm-blooded
still mourning the deaths of gods.
The now
self-idolatrous masses
thus, created in their image-
the sensuous abyss.
The sun hangs over this darkness.
We watch it rise and fall,
the moon.
Black fire surrounds us.
Even in Sinaloa
it is raining down.
We can not hear the melody.
We can explain,
we can explain!
Black fire is the engine, is the crucible.
Black fire in the palms of Socrates,
whose optimism quells
the dithyrambic pulse.
At last- we discovered the heavenly farse!
Now we do not need to die.
In one leap, no birth, no death.
A leap without feet or eyes.
Black fire surrounds us
in our image.
The abaddon of the senses
folds unto itself,
the soul and the myth.
Even in Sinaloa
it is raining down
on humanity.
We can hear the melody.
We can explain,
we can explain!
But,
the sun,
moon.
