I conduct experiments on cold gods and free entombed their tyr and spite.
I have malice held in globes and dark structures
embedding themselves within my wrists like snakes.
I plan as stratagem their second-hand racing.
Hurt is a godly thing when measured by a cutlass.
As I strove for perfection like quantity
in their droves they are blistered like statues,
held by the mirror as a vast inclination.
I pity them with my power and jagged sleep,
those with their futures behind their backs.
Brittle with colums and 23 flies hung bereft,
I dance braille through their halls with passionless joy
I have seen the construction of their science,
lanced it with hourglass and struck it with the only mercury i could find.
I; an inverse Midas.
-
A black swan is outside my cell every morning.
It does nothing but vacate the premises.
So in that mode I close supine and fold lightly into this space.
I can wrong the hanged of their bended cities
but at the cost of my forensic bliss..?
Vision pans out.
I perplex heads on a streetlight city roadmap,
complete with virgil guide.
The turn of his face reveals nothing more than
a bastardised Edo mask of somesort.
I lean and glide in panics 7 through 9 and fill the theatre within my head.
Alice like
arms from ears.
Perhaps not.
Think I'll stick to my chaos.
