This one is a little bit complicated,
but I'll try it anyhow.
It's called "Against the Sickness,
to the Female Double Principle God."
The goddess speaks, I am god, and all of this and that world,
and love garbage, and slaughter all the time,
and spring once a year.
Once a year, I like to love.
You can adjust to the discipline or not.
And your sacrificial act, call fruitfulness in decay,
will be pleasing to me as long as you do it with joy.
Otherwise, the prayer decay, ripen the fruitfulness,
will do if you have to despair.
Well, you know that girl of yours I like--
the one with nice legs, gray eyes, weak in the chest,
and always bouncing around.
The one they call the lay, the walk, that cunt, the brain,
talker, talker, talker, and the iron woman.
Well, she is gone.
Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone to someone else.
And now they say-- they say that she--
my good, my true, my beautiful--
is sick to her goddamn stomach and rejects all medication.
What do you do to your physical praisers
that they fall apart so fast or leave me?
She needs help now--
yours or that prick's, I don't know which.
The goddess, I have worked out my best
in belief of the rule, the best for the best results,
in love of the best, or else to hell with it.
I am just god.
It's not my problem.
So I will sit out this passion unreconciled, thanks.
There are too many voices.
My visions are not causal, but final.
There is no place to go, but on.
I'll dance at the ends of the white strings of nerves
and love for a while, your slave.
Oh, stupid condition, I drink to the presences in hope of sleep.
I have the honor, love, to be your animal,
but am not here to please.