she came from the south, from the land of grief
with a suitcase full of peasants’ rage
to build a house of her desires
on the backs of teenage slaves
her old purse is always full of subtle violence
fallacious stories, with a built-in guilt grenade
chuckling lies to crumble their trust
stupid questions to shred their patience
wide range of i-wants eating into weak spots
offensive compliments to burn their confidence
obvious lies splashed like acid to dissolve any defense
her red hands learned to work in white gloves
she hides between her trouble dolls
and the heavenly mother of pictures and cakes
the three-headed-serpent-of-whispers she became
can she convert your faith to fit into her dream?
can her lies be art not sin?
in the neverending war of whispers
a squadron of delilahs is hard at work
on every samson around
for the praise of their pimps
for the glory of their queen
but who will win?
you’d think you could never see the end
of arrogance and false glory
of nightly cacophony of her missa paganus
and the daily shower of lie grenades
how did it fall?
disarmed by one romantic type of conscience
even while everybody wholeheartedly loved
the stories of their dear old brothel mama
in spite of her losing grip on her own mind
makes you wonder
how her stubborn pumice heart
still pumps the particles of pride
at the very plausible pace
into what looks like a person
as though all made of pulled pork
in spite of her secret:
there was never life in her basement
where random body parts
float in formaldehyde
pretending eternity in the dark
in deep secret from the world
well covered by
superbly faked laugh
in her beginning, there was only laughter
with a suitcase full of peasants’ rage
to build a house of her desires
on the backs of teenage slaves
her old purse is always full of subtle violence
fallacious stories, with a built-in guilt grenade
chuckling lies to crumble their trust
stupid questions to shred their patience
wide range of i-wants eating into weak spots
offensive compliments to burn their confidence
obvious lies splashed like acid to dissolve any defense
her red hands learned to work in white gloves
she hides between her trouble dolls
and the heavenly mother of pictures and cakes
the three-headed-serpent-of-whispers she became
can she convert your faith to fit into her dream?
can her lies be art not sin?
in the neverending war of whispers
a squadron of delilahs is hard at work
on every samson around
for the praise of their pimps
for the glory of their queen
but who will win?
you’d think you could never see the end
of arrogance and false glory
of nightly cacophony of her missa paganus
and the daily shower of lie grenades
how did it fall?
disarmed by one romantic type of conscience
even while everybody wholeheartedly loved
the stories of their dear old brothel mama
in spite of her losing grip on her own mind
makes you wonder
how her stubborn pumice heart
still pumps the particles of pride
at the very plausible pace
into what looks like a person
as though all made of pulled pork
in spite of her secret:
there was never life in her basement
where random body parts
float in formaldehyde
pretending eternity in the dark
in deep secret from the world
well covered by
superbly faked laugh
in her beginning, there was only laughter
