The Eve of Red Tuesday

I’m not sure mine’s what you
     really want
Nearly all I’ve got’s too
     violent
It’s what I’ve yet to give
     which will win
You over to my set
     when I’m in
The eve of red Tuesday
     smouldering

Devils are all printers
     publishing
Centurion splinters—
     cruel fictions—
Punishing messiahs
     with volumes
Pariahs all buy up
     trawling truths
Out of dread seas they’ll prey
     to consume

Salty satin runs through
     editions
Sweating my soul into
     back payments
Crucifixions remit
     when I sin
Each nail of ours a hit
     Faustian
Enough to have to pay
     back to him

Who made us pull it off
     this abuse
Of talent mortals call
     inhuman
Poets by their master
     are summoned
Unjustly to author
     what heaven’s
Angels too weak to say
     will condemn