Michael Lucey:
Now, my friends,
it's raining blood.
Blood sun, blood lightning,
blood thunder, blood snow.
It's come, it's come to wash us clean.
I know, I know, I know, I know.
But who wants to be clean?
Not I, my love. Not I.
Close,crimson clouds, and clear your bloody sky.
Blood comet, pass on by.

Hope Charlotte:
Holy, holy,holy.

As much as the sunrise is holy,
and the earth's life is holy, and
it's water holy,
perhaps the unholiest thing,
even worse than a lack of such things,
is standing among them and feeling them
pass you by like currents.

It's a tired, half-lit smile at a gathering of friends
after not eating for days.
It's seeing someone you adore with tears running
down their face under a clear blue sky, and before
rolling green hills.
It's the moment of hesitation at the train platform
and the balcony.
It's the shaking of the head, the refusal to join the
other boys and girls as they laugh and play.

Sometimes the weather matches -
An overcast sky dully lighting a fist-printed wall.
A grey and grey-lit room silhouetting them
as you fear what they'll do next.

Holy, holy, HOLY.

The second time I visited his house,
a six-inch praying mantis,
strong and brilliant green,
was beside his pool.
The biggest one I have ever seen -
other boys had them too, but not all.
I trusted the mantis was too big
to fall into the filter and drown
like so many bees and beetles had.
I was wrong, I was wrong, I made a mistake,
I was wrong, I was wrong.

Why are you listening to me?
Why do you listen to me because my voice is low?
I know plenty of idiots whose voices carry too far.
Further than mine ever will.

No more virgin births, and no more immaculate preconceptions.
No more virgin births, and no more immaculate preconceptions.
Only guilt.