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2.01.2016 To Satan (2nd Draft) 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, meths up, eats what she doesn’t want to mortify dread that she might be other then a perfect Satan’s gofer, brain-washed, wild— infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts, floorboards arranged under carpets, defiled. Pentagrams engraved on truth's justice-seats, masks woven wanly of paint-wearing flesh; abattoirs littered with poison-dwarf sweets, histories chopped out for infants, near death; what are they scripting of filth, for what? That all the false idols, set in a line, might dance tangled, backwards, to all that lends dread? How is he drifting? He’s straight, he’s shut against any heart holds a heavenly chance of imposing their visions, getting bardic in bed. You’re a ruddy old Big Man Downstairs, you, fibs so jejune I can’t hear but to laugh— your buttons are pinned upon somebody who mistook all the fame for a fortunate path. Why governments swoon before truth is clear— you set the bar too high, and low at once, no innocent cleric can face all the dumbness— why all of these drones from downstairs, not here, can’t spit out a lick out of being a dunce, define for the ages what being a bum is. posted by Adam Fieled on Monday, February 01, 2016 Post a Comment
To Satan (2nd Draft) 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, meths up, eats what she doesn’t want to mortify dread that she might be other then a perfect Satan’s gofer, brain-washed, wild— infanticide-schemes, inverted taunts, floorboards arranged under carpets, defiled. Pentagrams engraved on truth's justice-seats, masks woven wanly of paint-wearing flesh; abattoirs littered with poison-dwarf sweets, histories chopped out for infants, near death; what are they scripting of filth, for what? That all the false idols, set in a line, might dance tangled, backwards, to all that lends dread? How is he drifting? He’s straight, he’s shut against any heart holds a heavenly chance of imposing their visions, getting bardic in bed. You’re a ruddy old Big Man Downstairs, you, fibs so jejune I can’t hear but to laugh— your buttons are pinned upon somebody who mistook all the fame for a fortunate path. Why governments swoon before truth is clear— you set the bar too high, and low at once, no innocent cleric can face all the dumbness— why all of these drones from downstairs, not here, can’t spit out a lick out of being a dunce, define for the ages what being a bum is. posted by Adam Fieled on Monday, February 01, 2016 Post a Comment
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