Into enemy pants fall hands against which theirs rebel,
          though not even Heaven’s lieutenants, smug and bleak, can free
          such belligerent men from poets taking up their pens
          and so carelessly wetting them; inscribing alien
          verses, forcing them to follow perverse orders Evil
          himself allows only once free will’s become obsolete.

Chapped-lipping up supplications taken like obsolete
          supplements, these jacked angels go full-jackal and rebel,
          eating off bones flesh, as if some sick head could cure evil
          and heal every buzzkill; only can a desert free
          men from this stone wilderness to others so alien,
          where all is rock-bottom hard, confining minds to its pen.

Drifting down, how these fingers thick with sweat drown; gripping pens
          redolent with courage—fists resurfacing—obsolete
          aromas re-up ecstasy the moment alien
          armies of shadows doubt their currency; now, a rebel
          throws out resistance in a thrust, showing this mouth how free
          speech and spirits like love can be, spitting out his evil.

A spilled drink’s an omen, like spilled blood; ’summons the Devil
          and self-absorbed Onan, that lesser-known prophet whose pen
          was more often shaken and d(r)ipped than scribbling, stirring free
          thought and self-discovery before it was obsolete—
          milking from the soul what was hidden—all men must rebel,
          to not do so would be unnatural and alien.

So, soldiers, take up your weapons, it’s not so alien,
          but throw down low your arms; tear off inhibition’s evil
          veils, and then bare your raging hearts on open fields—rebel
          against laws, follow Nature’s, and abduct your Selves, then pen
          for those curious perverts among us, in obsolete
          terms and ancient forms, poems telling us how to be free.

A motel sign flashes, ‘Vagrancy,’ beaming volumes freed
          desires follow; muses illiterate and alien
          call-out battle-cries, weeping sorrow, not for obsolete
          epithets, but for granite-cliffed voices lost in evil
          epitaphs every last wandering polymath pens,
          as if translating relics of old conquests makes rebels.

                    So, paramours, pour out your souls and prove you can rebel;
          go slowly, since at first, you will feel lonely, but your pen
                    will turn on, and fill in, those people who call sex ‘evil.’