God Help Himself

*This poem was created through a technique involving the scrambling of song lyrics (through multiple translations into different languages). It is no longer recognizable as the song it was incorporated from, but I own no lyrics from the original piece.

This is the idea of a new beginning, the heart of the night

In my grasp, taste it—

I am the kind of person who wants

To adore, to submit,

One of the girls with love in her eyes

and flowers in her hair

But I’m not the kind of person

Who falls down flat, who unconditionally


Not one of the girls with love in her eyes

and flowers in her hair

I’m trying to find the words, but I have to say that I love

It is all I can do—

Taste it—

The night: grappling, dark, and broken,

A hatred that lingers, a sigh in the air that never thins out—

The sea and the sky converge above me. In the church today,

My faith began to shake, and the mountains

Cried out


But it meant nothing,

starting today.

The night is the

wrath of the Gods

If it finds you, it wants you

If you sleep, you die.

He began to be used immediately,

By me, by you, by everyone

He is so tired, see

Maybe he’ll go die too

Taste it—

Blood, black substance

On a window frame in the infinite night,

Darkness swallowing, reject in the morning—


Throw me a line if you want

But I know you won’t

You’re too tired, man, too tired

Stop holding us up, will you?

(will you?)

Old King, no Queen,

Dead alive and crying…this day of doubt

Was the start of an emptiness

You want to feel meaningless?

Try experience.

This man is in bed

He is trying to sleep, to die

His body feels hard, soft, hard,

All over, taste it—

Dark, rich, sad and sour,

No kind of flavor fit for

Tasting, so stop

Dipping your finger in—

He rests there, holding us up,

You God, you Allah, you Buddha,

Nonexistent maybe,

This man is in bed

Feeling hard, soft, hard: I said, hard, soft, hard, and so on.


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