You must have the devil in you to succeed in any of the arts.


There is nowhere the light of god does
not reach, no private part he does not
touch, the hermit holds a lamp not to

guide himself but the world, wandering
its starry circuit of tears, spilled milk
through which he wades to teach that lust is

the joy of strength exercised and that
mercy dominates power, ‘I hide
my brilliance in rags to protect my

sanctity from your profanity’
he chants without anger, his whispers
endangering the complacency

of ignorance as his deep silence
engenders the lonely hours of meek
strangers with the sweet healing of his

transformative essence, burning filth
into heat & ashes love uses to
fertilize its flowers, seeds in hand

as from heaven onto earth he goes
down, scattering magic in the form
of art or orgasm, filling all holes.


Your body’s just a corpse carrying
a soul, the shell of a person(a) whose
pearl is the energy that wears it

out, life happens when people party
naked, the kiss of a candle melts
in your mouth with the excitement of

a lightning bolt, the scorpion is
immune to his own poison, hissing
to all of them circling like fists of

fire around him, ‘All of your fears are
just passing seasons wasting your heart’s
beauty under scars’ artificial

lighting, though your heavenly glows is
a knowing beacon for those stars who
have fallen’ fading constellations

not at all ashamed of showing or
repeating their pain again for those
who have the courage to listen to

their beatings, witnessing their breaking
down w/the attentiveness of angels
weeping wearing martyrdom’s crown well.

1Voltaire, attributed by S. G. Tallentyre in the third edition of Life of Voltaire, published at New York by Knickerbocker Press in 1903; page 145.