Insipid fumes bellow from the atrabilious chimney. In the sanetified crevet I calmly pillage and rake for hot dry powdered human slag still steaming in the crematorium's grate. Bio-organic ebullition, bones tar, tallow dehydrates for my deleterious horticulture so that I may cultivate.. Your mortal mechanism dies in nutrients rich. In the hallowed turf you lie just for the taking. Charred sinews as good as lime, no phosphates do I need. Deteriorated flesh used as top-soil to replenish and nourish seed. Spreading this human potash as ash matured. Recycling my rich harvest. Bring out your dead... for use as manure! Irrigating tears are shed. But the ground must be fed. And there's no rest for the dead. Tipping and dusting up the spilt contents of urns. Every morsel that glows as embers in the fire. Extinguishing all hope of beautrific dispatch. These charred chassis desired. Exequiet rites performed. A coronach sooting up the flu. Enter my execrable inferno. Even in the after-life there's work to do. The nitrogen content high the flesh is weak. At the graveside mourners cry. You're never to wake again. Burnt brisket renews the ground to germinate my seed. Cremated bodies are my spoil to use them as plant feed. Ploughing this abhorrant human manure. Seedling my rich harvest. Bring out your dead for the soils to devour. Dry the dead are bled. because the ground must be fed. Still no rest for the dead. I propagate Dust in the grate. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Diluted in water and sprayed on crops. Charcoal, fats, flesh and soot fertilising pastures with active furtile rot. Incumbent. Latent calories are spent. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Renewing the land with corpses corrupt. Mortuary scrapings, hearses a must. To the hot hearth the diseased are trussed. Harvesting the defouled to fertilise the soil. Rejuvenating the spent with my fecundate spoils... Reaping the gone to nourish the land. Replenishing exhausted pastures with my uncanny sleight of hand. Restoring the unnatural balance. sowing my seed. Defalcating the departed I rapt and glean. So I recite my contrite lament. Lacrimation for the dead. Their rest which I disturb. Where should stand row upon row of cold grey remembrance stones my cash crops now grow. Bu döküman AkorMerkezi.com'da yayınlanmıştır. http://www.akormerkezi.com