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6.19.2015 Ode: To Satan Let it not be said that his rhetoric drifts out of focus on Earth for a casual minute— nor that just retribution is not terribly swift for those who disrespect his intimate business; as the new mother, tethered away from her child, deliberately eats what she doesn’t want to mortify dread that she might be other then a perfect Satan’s gofer, starving and wild— infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts, floorboards arranged to make room for another. Pentagrams engraved on truth, justice-seats, masks woven tightly of paint mixed in flesh, abattoirs filled with poison-dwarf sweets, histories out of nothingness, made mesh. What are they scripting? For who, for what? That all the false idols, set in a line, might dance tangled, backwards, to all that they dread? How is he drifting? He’s straight, he’s shut against any spook holds a heavenly chance of imposing their visions, or raising the dead. You’re a ruddy old Big Man Downstairs, you, fibs so jejune I can’t hear but to laugh— and your buttons are pinned upon somebody who mistook all the fame, and the fortunate path. Why governments swoon before truth is clear— you set the bar too high, and low at once, no innocent victim can face all the dumbness— why all of these souls from downstairs, not here, can’t say a lick out of being a dunce, define for the ages what being a bum is. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, June 19, 2015 Post a Comment
Ode: To Satan Let it not be said that his rhetoric drifts out of focus on Earth for a casual minute— nor that just retribution is not terribly swift for those who disrespect his intimate business; as the new mother, tethered away from her child, deliberately eats what she doesn’t want to mortify dread that she might be other then a perfect Satan’s gofer, starving and wild— infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts, floorboards arranged to make room for another. Pentagrams engraved on truth, justice-seats, masks woven tightly of paint mixed in flesh, abattoirs filled with poison-dwarf sweets, histories out of nothingness, made mesh. What are they scripting? For who, for what? That all the false idols, set in a line, might dance tangled, backwards, to all that they dread? How is he drifting? He’s straight, he’s shut against any spook holds a heavenly chance of imposing their visions, or raising the dead. You’re a ruddy old Big Man Downstairs, you, fibs so jejune I can’t hear but to laugh— and your buttons are pinned upon somebody who mistook all the fame, and the fortunate path. Why governments swoon before truth is clear— you set the bar too high, and low at once, no innocent victim can face all the dumbness— why all of these souls from downstairs, not here, can’t say a lick out of being a dunce, define for the ages what being a bum is. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, June 19, 2015 Post a Comment
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