Monday, January 4, 2010


There is no sound
In this stretch of colorless

The stench of Death
And a vague odor of sex
Hangs heavily in the stale air
Permeates the skin
Allaying the nagging commands
Of a savage God

What do you want

Have the offspring of
Tribulation not been choked
With the lustful compulsions
Of circumstantial angels
You’ve discarded from
Your humble castle
Because they wanted to be
Great as you are?

And you are a king

With your wreathe of gold
That you stole
From a petty, sleeping thief
Who pilfered it
From your dead father’s

There is not a song
That could carry this tune
Not a tear
That could encapsulate this shame
Not an Evil
That could rival this fear

And at night
The child sleeps secretly
Under the bed covers
Kisses the loins of the angels
Comes when the wild God wills it to
And dies with the rising of the Sun

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