i.

Cutting edges, not corners, never
     obstreperous, always

     obscene, sometimes even
more than a little obsequious,

a Narcissist clothed only in the
     luminous kisses of

     his elusive lover,
this god of yours is a pain, a cracked

mirror’s continuous ache, a blind,
     nameless thing mistaken

     for something great because
mystery appeals more when all seems

lost and only what cannot be grasped
     seems all the more worth risk

     attempting to gain, this
twitching dirge a primal nerve never

properly dealt with, an urge never
     before by any hand

     once tamed, an itch which grates
souls against an unregulated,

indescribable experience
     whose meaning, whose purpose,

     hurts us all the more with
what wound it hides behind, parables

of elaborate excuses, plain
     but not simple, a code

     Napoléonic and
Complex, an ancient symbol comprised

of many phrases echoed by the
     lips of many faces,

     traces of toxins in
everyone’s appropriation’s

misinterpretation, vanity’s
     gilded gout veined thickened

     with innumerable
symptoms, but not diagnosable,

                    ii.

an insidious unkindness of
     disease on the mind of

     way too many people,
too modern sometimes to be prescribed

away, a future so far off no
     research can find a cure

     for, this god of yours is
you, you fools, closer, yet, than any

temporary comfort which can be
     purchased, absolution

     for sins you cannot buy
since you are already alright, as

with all highs, devoid of any real
     enlightenment, any

     actual vision, lies
crafted for and by lowlifes, heads filled

with the emptiness of having no
     insight, an illusion

     too often credited,
created outright, for improving

what obstructions impeding your soul’s
     fluid movement through this

     inkblot Universe, thoughts
grounding its flight, truth would implore you

to behove, a tumour to remove
     in order to scatter

     their obstacles, temper
the intensifying enmity

of those enemies from every
     war’s hard, forlorn path if

     only you would, when blue,
look not up but deep into that heart

of yours your fear of its warmth only
     bruises more than any

     abuse could hope to, the
heaviest hit is his bitterness,

                    iii.

its repetitive lyric sinking
     bloodthirsty teeth into

     your inability
to get over it is bleeding you,

the death sentence stance your slowing pulse
     is perpetually

     attuned to, if only
intuition were in use, more in

vogue than being used by your psyches
     to tune out that inner

     psychic telling you the
only way through this is to keep on

going, hell is only another
     room whose curtains, when drawn,

     confuse you, the dimmed light
within is enough to draw on to

draw on any wall a scrawled door to
     open the way they do

     in cartoons, where you say
there is an exit, then it is true,

existence becomes what you want it
     to, stop hanging on when

     artefacts no longer
suit you, there is only so much such

artifice can do, impose on its
     plundered collection an

     order and even then
everything is out of place in

a museum, freedom is to speak
     truth notoriously,

     to go about it so
noiselessly but showily, dancing

with it not only when it brings you
     opportunity, but

     when it is ugly, too,
no atheist, I believe in me.