Lydia Lunch - Cesspool Called History

I am an island in this cesspool called history
I inhabit the crumpled remains of a place that
Once was...suffocating in a solitude so fulfilling
That the merest rendevous becomes a cruxifiction

A solitude more chaotic than war
A stoic who remains undaunted among the ruins
Of a world shattered into atoms
Some of us are borne weary of being born
Given the gift of life to live obsessed with death

We bury on our souls the corpses we have not
Yet murdered...like an angel dafted on to the
Back of a leper...a criminal saint...the hero of
Yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow
Unless he crucifies himself today

The restlessness of sleepless nights dig trenches
Where the corpses of memory lay rotting
A crater of lucidity whispers...time...time
That slaughter house of the universe
Where is it not in the nature of a man who
Cannot kill himself to seek revenge against
Whatever enjoys existing