I have never seen a vision
nor has any angel or aethyr
ever visited me to tell me a
secret which might damn
or save my soul.

No satan or satyr
has ever appeared to me,
inviting hideously to
vile dance or play or song.

(o vicious theatre-)

-I’ve lost so much.
(So much is gone.
So much of it good.
And so much plenitude.)

Ah, providence-
Natural as sniper’s injurious eye.

-“It was quite long ago.
I very plainly was utterly another.”

A version of some self that exists
only as a lost stone cast to the
engulfing shadows of ritual
(No one could have escaped)

Salvation is for the lepers.
(There are no lepers, anymore)

Kingdoms of impossible Things
Empires of sand & soft dreams
(culture of blood & dark libations)

The beautiful river is
vomit and death
and tumult of excess and
feces and custom and war
(The currents are storm and
vertigo of whorling ruin and
shrieking despairs & ramparts.
The swimming agony takes
you, coldly & w/out emotion.)

Insane,
we are treading corpses.

The depths are cavernous
sorrows and we are drifting
detritus in its licentious
seductions.

Ah, but one mere subtle
inflection
would find our ears sudden
attuned to those gentle
voices which are screaming
worms, ecstacies.

Sensual pagodas of burning
wreaking nausea of skin melted
like hot wax to chrome and steel
bayonets and on the foreheads and
dry tongues of cannibal killers
and shock troops of Gedron who
are mercenary and tactical and
stalking, cloaked in weaponry.

They were warriors
and lunatics who believed
fiercely in enemies and fought
and fell, ripped and hacked,
splashing satanically in
coagulated liquid red
humanity.

The sounds of their dying
are a garish wet piteousness
(Hear them choking on their
own lives. The low sick gurgling
noises. The gasping moaning
horror-)

In the trenches,
the young soldier was doubled
over, puking semen & filth,
in horrid heaving breaths,
and the diseased bile of senators
and evil sweating priests
and every perpetrating cop
and journalist and
judge and proprietor of
modern mindlessness.

Idyllacy was law of the land
when the bombs rained down
(I probably lived in Winnipeg,
employed as a diligent worker
w/frayed nerves & aching brow.
I might even have been happy,
a small child in my charge).

Peals of silence
screech off our brain
and torment us
like the poltergeist of
our hearts.

The first one was lovely.

A scarlet orange neon flash
and at once, an ominous ashen
mushroom is visible,
sky to surface like the cruel
cock of Ages
behind giant ancient curtains
which are finally
drawn
and only now, we are seeing
and for a second,
it’s enchanting
just before the most excruciating
killing pain.

Fire becomes a savage hungry
beast and maniacally consumes
the earth.

Well, at least, there’s no one
to take the blame.

Whole mountain ranges are
shook from their base.

They are rubble in moments.

Luxuriant forests and golden valleys
and cool orchards are smote,
disgustingly.

And the cities which I love
are simply levelled, flattened
as if Himself looked down
from heaven,
sighed sadly and
stepped on them, saying:
“Nah, I don’t think so.”

We are done away with,
ruthlessly
for even Lucifer
abhors ruling a wasteland.

The boudoir of Disturbance
is an unholy design
and reeks profusely of
abomination
and contempt.

Skeletons reside there.

Skeletons who were once people,
alive and breathing and peaceable
and kind, but now they are demons,
pitiless, remorseless & murdering
and all the while, laughing
and cackling and hissing
and spitting.

We engage w/them in orgies
of massacre and chaos.

Yeah, and it’s all just
a game to those fiends.
A deadly game that pits
brother against brother,
father against son,
lover against lover

me against you.

Roll the dice & make your move.

You devil.
You iniquitous hound.

Some kids in the neighbourhood
are running mad in the streets,
imitating death, pretending sex.
They don’t carry automatics or
explosives but knives & eight balls
are sickeningly nerveless ways
to drain you. Cowards of hell.

-“When I was a boy, there was
a warm gentle creek which trickled
through the seasons of my youth
like a lamb or pup. I used to go
there and catch crayfish and
turtles and torture them.
I speared them & opened them up
like a sinister scientist or
biologist of senselessness.
I was a slayer of ducklings.
I burned water.”

Awful wretch-

I’d spend my summers
at the lake of Torches
& high atop a stony hill,
I had a pristine view
of the great lie.

I smelled & tasted it
on the stark perfumed air.

My military fantasies are
still hiding in those trees,
that foliage.

An assassin is still waiting
there w/numb callous fingers
and dirty painted face.

And he is still gowned, cleverly
in stealth w/his gaze always
transfixed through the green
scope of his rifle of lethal
precision.

No rhythm or pulse could ever
be discovered anywhere on his
person.

Well, I’ll just leave him, then.

Let him forever remain alone
because contentedness is for
the hateful miserly pope
& his naked witless sheep.

Anyway, I’m sick of my stinking
feet. Let’s cut them off & eat them.

I’ve been starving for years.