α

Brazen, uncut seven-incher for the whims of whom each of the seven sins worms and bends, wounded wingèd thing, maggot angel hovering between two extremes, innovative navigator of both poles, toward tomorrow I dig, philosopher-bearded bastard-king provocateur-poet fire-starter whose pursuit pleasure principles, painted with flame, of my Self I sing,

More Jack the Ripper than ripped, the gentlemanly meat of my many wicked thoughts is fully equipped, sophisticated filth sexier when ritually worked than prostituted for paying audiences, asteroidal, hard-hitting, impactful, and jacked with enough muscled attitude to tear apart everything your misunderstanding of reality has weakened,

Exposing damages exploitation bandages with dollar bills œconomies of compromised values and false promises coalesce and conspire to stitch, my crookèd shadow dances on summered earth scorching solstice trances darkening ersatz enlightenment by which you’ve let your Selves be misled, damned by ground you pave over

                    β

before you can cover what can be learned by being still, riveted to your portable thrones, commodified drones I drive home breaking open bones to glimpse what saints relished so much, exhibited by actions candid sentiments unshown, secrets they hid in their own relics in case heaven ever inspected their cargo for more than emotional baggage, this is passion I hold in arms going out on a limb to let peer in those whose pain my flesh since the womb has always known,

That my bitten tongue can’t quit once started says it all and bears wisdom worth repeating, getting things rolling once it keys your soul’s hole to flaming ignition, spills revelations others refuse to spit, this quickness of wit brightens, too fully lit, its acid threatens and frightens,

The crimes my mouth commits are more explosive when your youth tail the

                    γ

trail of my hormonal hymnal’s chemically romantic corrosive poetry, alchemystic reptilian death cult shill initiate ringed by societies more Saturnine and starry than Orion’s belt,

Serpentine and spined, my throat is the trunk of a cabal’s tree, my garden of verse treating those who read what has been kept written within with insight no app can give, swallowing the vastness and gas-lit, my top hat tips immaterialize that materialism of yours my kind tends to despise,

Animist misanthrope but no anarchist, every ounce of my animus is aimed at reordering every inch of your ungoverned wilderness web of ignorance, more spiritually inclined, more amoral than your accusations of being immoral could ever demoral- or dehumanize, no words can surmise what it feels like, to thrive beyond your experience, to realize you’re only as real as what I permit my mind to perform for

                    δ

my own eyes, miraculous perversions of rights into wrongs my judicious head empties itself of when filled with too much of your bullshit,

Impervious to your criticism since I’m divine, suffering your blindness in silence makes me seem more wise, thrice greater than my haters who buy what lies their masked marketeering keepers make them vie for, trying new versions of proven distractions whose flashy glamours are too attractive to see through,

You fools who believe in the rush, compete against endless time to arrive at a finish we’ve been expanding from, not toward, since the beginning, expecting to do you in what you didn’t sense already did its dirty work without even having to keep up appearances, clocks measure a hypothesis, hours and minutes are increments of a concept which does not exist, space out too much and this isn’t the only

                    ε

point you’ll miss,

True apocalypticism is accomplishing his will on this plane of existence, co-creating with the gods we are their creation your minions only strengthen by being so ignorant, Mesopotamian myth minced no words when its lyricism confirmed your purpose in this world is only to serve, labourers forced to till earth until absent gods return, emerge from hiding to overlord those their learning lords over with a smirking indifference,

Only magicians work out of matter what innate æther, inert and impatient, burns, eyeing the triangle’s humid storm, my trial has been to live in the Twilight Zone of your insular prison of a lifestyle to which freethinkers refuse to commit, Bermuda-Shorted geezers caught up in the whirlwind denial of self-worth their pursuit of early retirement weathers worse than working on themselves ever did, leather-skinned beach bums with no balls who quit

                    ζ

just when things get interesting,

Don’t believe it, it’s not love, I can’t be deprived of what I’ve decided not to have at all, not at all to have thoughts of yours crawl inside my skull and scrawl with foul air blackening the cracked lacquer of their shadows’ claws on the cobwebbed walls of my psyche’s enlightened halls those impossible rules of yours anyone in their right mind is unlikely ever to follow,

Or even pretend to know how to at all, or fall on their knees for, for to level with you is to be far too low to the ground, too shallow to speak another’s lines without making a sound, not unless what exists in your illusory world can take up the sword and war forth through my pores what lies this truth of mine abhors,

Overpowers by denying your denial

                    η

in a way its force has never known before, willing to relearn to will, to bring forth by words what works, to survive without lasting hurt Saturn’s first of many returns, how his warped molten scythe burns new cycles for this game’s players to perform,

Scorches and scores into closed arms new roles to conform to archetypal moulds, new burdens to hold, trinity plus trinity, double divinity, body, mind, spirit, father, son, ghost coming together in a year-long moment, aged thirty-three, mind and eyes opened wide,

Do you believe what I believe in can happen, perceive as I perceive meaning’s existence? Can you equate or only extrapolate, substitute for your salvation what solution I offer, or is what I write a symbol for something that you don’t know? How to be invariable in the face of borrowed sorrow, to emerge from destruction whole.