(Id)entity (Pentagram Inside a Pentagon)

               α = 108°

I have a lot of hell in me
     dragged my mother through it
     too many times to tell
demons worked me out hard until

my thoughts filled them all with scars too
     deep to wash off with charms
     god’s laser eye reading discs he learned
not to trust, since lies burned into

the flickering cinema of
     his memory’s dim-lit
     cigarette-burned mind, its
archives blackened by those random

accidents man’s unkindness comes
     to make known, every
     hideous feature shown
no characteristic’s account

               β = 108°

overdrawn, my own psyche’s drowned
     (id)entity a flood
     of genealogy
flawed by an ancestor’s ancient

curse, another world’s open door
     pouring forth those horrors
     worse than being born in
a century whose mor(t)als are

terrified of being denied
     eternity, my hearse
     a cell phone boned of her
battery, roaming a backlit

Universe with no coverage
     down to the bare marrow
     no tomorrow for hares
bounding the jaws of both wolves, bad

               γ = 108°

and good, a hand’s breadth between death
     and splitting hairs from the
     heads of those parents from
the weak wills of whom we damned fools

inherit this imminent doom
     this mystery that killed
     my father to fill the
quota of (t)his tomb, wandering

the wombs of our women, it proves
     nothing can survive the
     kiss of temptation
that the devils we turn to are

our Selves we groom in the gardens
     of our subconscious, walled
     display rooms padded with
by-products of lust we play with

               δ = 108°

eccentric angles we measure
     fate’s wicked lots our dark
     hardnesses of hearts hit
stakes in before we take off our

gloves and box with lost love those parts
     of us we need no more
     faith itself a waste, when
the horseman comes to wait, racing

past hope, when the end approaches
     and I want a priest, I’ll
     send for the Pope, from
my withered vanity of genes

I’ll drink its vintage and braid ropes
     for us both, you and me
     my love, nooses of veins
power lines of blood buzzing with

               ε = 108°

our name, sir, this copper thing breath
     protects from rust, Venus
     itself envious of
the trust the underworld invests

in us, covering the scales of
     our backs with green, enough
     to last until Saint John’s
apocalypse divides this earth

we crawl into shares, the one crop
     with which we can deal, what
     other men call evil
this wealth of occult knowledge all

the bells of the churches in life’s
     village resound to tell
     our secret better kept
out than the barrel of a gun.