Librorum Prohibitorum

                    i. Ignis

Listen in, rest assured,
servitors, familiars,
infamy’s tendency
to make books powerful
stirs the wings of rumour

to serve every lewd
author’s true ambition,
his foulest work’s hidden
purpose: words poured forth so
subversively to win

for what its heat is worth
a coveted place on
the Index of Rome and
attract the processes
of its Holy Office,

or in more modern climes
the foreigner’s pined-for
indignation of fake-
noosed governments and their
spin’s unmuzzled puppet-

                    ii. Terra

mouthed supporters, without
ever once missing our
step’s calculation or
apologizing for
such so-called offensive

apostasy as this
relentless pursuit of
being true to oneself,
lips like fists expressing
filth as it truly is,

without pity for or
appeal to your censor-
shit, without kissing your
ass, what reality
it is one’s beaten heart

actually feels, ink
hitting home hard lyrics
of songs written as they
are sung, rhythm stinging
nerves under skin to near

                    iii. Aer

influence without fear,
repulsive with ev’ry
imperfection spoken
patently, bold misdeeds’
ribaldry revealed, sins

plucked from our heads calling
attention to wounds which
publicity only
heals before criticism
can even begin to

fumble in its filthy
fingers, nothing left to
keep concealed, only our
geniuses to declare,
all while never being

influenced by what we
hear uttered against us,
acid our own pens have
already scripted, since
the unsolicited

                    iv. Aqua

opinions of strangers
are powerless against
us, impervious co-
conspirators in this
geek poiesis of our

own Promethean myths,
disturbers of shit for
whom making is a way
of being few can get

with, creation a gift
the distribution of
which is limited to
those already equipped
with wit’s necessary

talent, not something you
can learn or purchase,
manipulation of
media is any
artist’s only reason

                    v. Æther

to exist, his weapon,
shaping into being
things which shake with vigour
the foundations of those
who need to shape up, fiends

replacing sentiment
with intelligence, what
dreamscapes no one else can
imagine or compete
with, this is what we are,

not mere “creatives,” no
sirs, whiz-kid sorcerers,
your turbulent tortured,
firebranded malcontent,
wizard sodomite and

fornicator, porn-fed
fabricators of fresh
statements, not “content,” say
what you will, audience,
it makes no difference.