Pale Petals Ossifying Opaque


Outcast statues weeping capsules
of wax, softening pillars running hard
after the fact, the last after-
effects rubbing off, swallowing all of

what never was, how fast just-discarded
artists must act lest disaster
unjustly enacted damage these dark-
hearted masters of farces far

more sinister, more masterful,
indecencies fit for audiences less-
than innocent, crepuscular
illusions of hewn reputations taking


this long to shake off, ruining
them but not themselves elucidating
to the confusion of strangers
changes they mistake as confessional

fodder conceding defeat, but what fools
each of those under-achieving
villagers are in such gross over-reach,
nothing concealed having ever

even been revealed at all, swine
sated by lies they eat up hard with pitchforks,
forgetting that every book
torched is an artwork their souls will burn for, in


need, indeed, of some verse to turn
toward in moments when these statues would
have served the same chore’s dutiful
purpose, to pray for those preying upon

others’ rewards, talent passes over
the herd, returns once only to
ridicule after already warned, voice
forever unheeded never

goes unheard, this church to scorch scorned
warms its temple’s idols, informs ere their shapes
fade to shades, untroubled, they spate,
relate well without welling up gushing wells


of effervescent tales without
at all relating, decadent genteel
facing ordeal as nobles do
on eves of revolution, cool,

statement-making impactful as fists to
walls, but wearing smiles until flame
scrubs off faces which, even when rendered
nameless, live on still, famous, with

verve, serving a recursive surge
of maledictions, vindictive messages,
introspections by translation’s
conversion perverting wickedness to hushed


epigrams, reckless whispers, grand
relics of ransomed legends transformed to
memories everyone can
see and sense and feel no remorse for all

censoring when performed firsthand, playing
allegations of corrosive
experience befalling silver-dipped
fingertips writing what scrawls will

appall only those opposed to
being called out as unaccustomed to the
costumes of the unpopular,
reliquary skulls hemorrhag​ing echoes


of soft-spoken requiems for
those gluttonous egos, deipnosophists
too comfortable melting out
from their mellow poetical

offices, it’s offensive, really, too
eloquent, you see, in their roles’
bombastic inversion of usual
monastics to even act as

any body politic’s tragic
trash can ossuaries, to go out without
some bang for having so harangued
masses ignorant of their lies’ meaning, that


these satyrical martyrs are
logosophy’s tortured fanatics with
scarred masochist grip, chalk, and char
chiaroscuroing canvas flesh with

their stigma’s own brand of a plot’s
antiheroic theatrics,
bold remarksists ripping claws into their
scourge’s primordial reserve,

no regard for canned applause, more proto-Atlantean cretans, Ur-authors
of timeless narratives, dour pre-
archetypal Jungsters, than your typical


Millennial “creatives,” End
of Days undeliverables much less
miserable now for having
taken the chance then, had the loudest last

laughs ever since, for this extravagance
paid, imbeciles cognizant and
resentful of being lesser than they,
filthy its fragrance, wither the

bouquet placed by pilgrims at the
feet of these saints, these untamed makers of those
tainted, tasteless things, pale petals
ossifying opaque as by their critics


these heretics’ images are
debased, statues once blessed reduced to waste
by dullards yielding plastic blades,
in the name of safety sawing off and

softening society’s edges with
fake news yesterday’s nudes always
return from their graves to replace, mistakes
are made in vain when liberties

are taken for granted instead
of gratis by amateurs taking credit
and advantage of betters to
whom due homage must be paid: scapegoats free pain.