Testo di 'The Garden Of Unearthly Delights' di Lydia Lunch

Embrace...
Embrace the celebration of a lifestyle
as evidenced in the Encyclopedia of Disaster...
Panic, Trauma, Flesh and Bloodshed.
We are gathered together like the sacrifice
of small animals offering themselves up
to the Divine Savage by ways of
self-mutilation, body manipulation, psychic manifestations,
as if in Transference of the fiendish agonies
through psycho pathetic identification with something Greater...
With something Greater
which doesn't even exist except as a seductive novelty
for profoundly disturbed souls.

To reach that Mystic State
like a Plague or sacred gift
which unleashes the mechanism.
Punishment is Benediction.
Righteously putting an end to the infected mortals
parasitic existence.

Welcome to the Necropolis of Unearthly Delights...
where each new troublemaker desires a Mark of Identity
The Branding Iron, The Needle, The Noose, The Gun
All Victims declare themselves to be in Rebellion against
The Church, The State, False Virtue, Convention and Tradition
shall have placed upon their bodies,
shall have placed upon their bodies,
The Mark of the Beast, The Mark of Cain, The Designs of the Devil
Tattoos and Piercings and Brandings
Brandishing forth the confusion of insane movements
Hysterical screams, anxieties, the inevitable approach of danger
Uncontrollable gestures of terror
Fear magnetized by the violence of their own panic
Plunged into the Spiral, the Whirlpool, drawn in...
We are all falling
We are all falling
The clear sensation of Aspixia
The awareness of having struggled in vain
against the irresistible suction which swallows you up.
Sucked into the Vortex, the Vacuum.
Hanging by a thin thread.
Attacks of fever, inner devastation.
The overwhelmingly virulent clinging desperately
to the ideal of an unnamed leader
an unnamed leader
as if to suspend their Life Sentence
The Dilemma of their gradual extinction
by the logic of a Machine which devours
and forces into Quarantine.

Trussed up to trees, poles, scaffolds
beaten down by the wind in a dervish of panicked lust
commenced to steam in Flesh and Shadow
by the scornful Executioners
who've shorn every last vestige of humanity.

And with the Blood of a thousand Christs,
I wash my hands of Mercy.
Blindly hurling myself into the red hot lips of the Volcano
Thick white heat releases steam through the puncture wounds
Long, slow, hard suck
Ambushed by mouths trying to bite off more than enough too
chew on for awhile.
Being swept under
Drinking in the poison of others.

The only way out is through the Crematorium's door.
Escape is essential.
There is no seeking shelter in the empty house
of the uneasy souls
against the force of irresistible attack.

Sick victims litter the landscape.
Truth burns holes in the heads of the Undead.
The unending cries and whispers of those treated unjustly

All the lovers of forgetfulness
turn a blind eye
walk in single file
looking for a bridge
tall enough to tumble from.

LEFT WITH INCRIMINATIONS OF ALL THINGS LEFT UNDONE.

To rest in the belly of a pit where no sun will ever shine.
Stranded in an endless Valley of Unrest.
Bruised and battered in tatters, like beasts in a black bed
head bent back upon the cutting block.

In a final exorcism of Doomed Lust,
The feverish rhythms
of those who know they are condemned to die...
condemned to die, but not of old age
at the dirty hands of the immaculate whirlpool
embraced by a wicked stepsister
who cultivates the most vile and ominous attributes
of the illegal brotherhood
of the beatifically tortured bodies.