when you lose your queen

There are still remains of her death skin y el soplo fétido de su descomposición entre los que están de pie y destrozados sobre sus cuadros regados por el tablero.
(a smelly ghost wondering between the standing on the board).
We are all guilty, we all smell funny and we are thirsty
Now i’ve got this savage wound of desire and hunger
Empty guts and almighty thunders

B’s smell in my Beatles tshirt
How am i suposed to wake

Why avoid the organic unperfect pleasure of mistakes, the unbearable loop of a howling dog
And jump straight to a mechanic sort of love

We’re all guilty, persecuted, betrayed and mistic