Sansons Seraglio

Sansons Seraglio kissed by red bride.
Heads in baskets, annointing his feet.
Ungrateful ragdolls, lying in corridors.
If you love your sons, why do you crush them?
Dogs know it's been said of the head, for three minutes it lives.
Sansons Seraglio

Fast rolling tumbrel, for my head you'll fumble.
Gravity comes hot, of you I know I am not.
You are aware of the sciatica, consume up substance, encase the abyss -
so memory can pace around, across, and upon it.
Sansons Seraglio, heads in baskets
Shrieking is parlance... unraveling