Hugin’s Eye

Looking into the sea of piss

every motherfucker taking a dime or shorts

nothing left but the chance

the right to suck the juice or take the crunkle man for his bagel

it’s either you, or me or the baby

one of us has to go, to the store

i am living on the grenade while you go out and get

ready for the next day

passionate and ready

for the time when we know we will have to talk about this problem

that has something to do with what we left hanging yesterday

that thing that is fucking killing us both

that has a knive through each of our realms of waking the fuck again

and seeing yet another day of of figuring what the we forgot to deal with yesterday

and then the other day I did pay the tab that you left

for my birthday

“it was all a lie.” They said
and sought out to try to find the truth with flashlights
they screamed and fought about it
until the lights went out and it was black
they walked
and felt a wall
near the bottom was a crack
that let out this light that was there the whole time
but they never saw it
“This is not real.” They said
and eventually got lost again in the argument
they told the others who then asked why they even tried
and they tore the old wall down and put another up as quick as possible
in honor of the old wall
which they never beleived

the light is never there since it is never seen
never beleived nor ever conceived
it waits and shines in darkness
for the next crack to appear
and will draw subtle microscopic stars
in the wall so near

The course of time
has pulled the plug on destiny
and left our sad souls swimming
in a gooey dark pool of hatred and fear
that seems to never fill up
or drain

Once said
now dead
her head bled
a single metal tear was shed
why couldn’t she have died in bed?

could we count the times that she smiled?
or count the times she laughed at you and me?
could we not have said that? dead?
could we not have lied? in bed?

on the day that she died
we tried so fucking hard to cry
but sighed
and never were alive to begin with
to know what was going on

The gothic masters of doom, My Dying Bride, have unleashed yet aother chapter of lonely and depressing ballads that seem that almost seem from their earlier days of drearyness. For the last couple albums since   For Lies I Sire