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Missing and murdered mothers, daughters, sisters, second class citizens and the succulent meat which mouths slurped up and said nothing of.

lyrics

The deed is done, I wash my hands
And contemplate the evening plans.
A taste of life don't cost too much.
I prop my spirits with a carcass crutch.
The kid is dead, the sun is low,
The road is dusty and I'm all alone.
If I could do this and get away,
I might just do this every day.

But don't the meat taste sweet.
No one'll miss them anyway, on the high road to low ends.

The bird is carved, the swine are fed,
The moon keeps secrets while the floor glows red.
A makeshift grave, not down too deep,
Just inches from a suckling teet.
A terror squeal, a grinding wheel,
A bloody package neck to the veal.
And as the fat settles on your thighs
Another red light downtown turns white.

But don't the meat taste sweet.

credits

from Ultraviolet Bruise, released July 7, 2008

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Zombie Pistolero & His Guns image

Zombie Pistolero & His Guns Montreal, Québec

From a dusty, unmarked grave in a nameless canyon rose the body of a hired gun, his back riddled with bullets, his degraded voice only an echoing whisper on the looming rock walls. Death stood before him, a stone archway he hadn't noticed before. On the other side, in a candle-lit grotto surrounding an ebulliently tiered central fountain, lay a feast of overripe sacrament; pain and rot as fuel. ... more

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