Upstay the course, the wood is vast,

beasts there chitter, in dark amass;

fabrefaction—blade from bone,

amarulence to the thorny throne.

Ramiferous lanes, newly cleaved,

swift through, gather fallen leaves.

And in the clearing, xylem stacked,

by sanguine tongues, the ochre wracked.

Tawny char there howls ablation;

the raze but kindling, for creation.

The Maker

He was a creator of talent rare, whose works earned great reknown,

and jealousy in equal measure, from those much lower down.

He labored beneath a city vast, ruled by lust and grift and gun,

where much work was accomplished, to ensure little else was done.

Shortly, a savage band assembled, around the maker’s domain,

with precious little consistency, official concern was feigned.

“His wonders he shares not yet enough, and so unto the flame,

his worldly arts and life, to avenge the affliction of our shame.”

Loosed from the throng were feral cries, as the fire ate all away,

“The villain was at long last dead, the people have won the day!”

Yet months after that fateful encounter, without the maker’s sway,

confidence in the system’s operation began a sure decay.

Despondent, a former acolyte of the creator, sat a lonesome bar,

and drank in mournful silence, and dreamed of faring far.

There in the corner he spied, suddenly, a odd man, robed and pale,

who seemed somewise familiar, and so he gave him hail.

The stranger raised his head, and to the drinker’s great surprise,

found none other than the maker—xanthous luster in his eyes.

“Tell me, man, what are you, that could escape that fiery suit?”

The maker turned to the souse and answered: “I am absolute.”


Sat the abyss,

the blue marble shines,

stony step of

a steep stair to climb.

Red god and lover,

first to be tread,

that decrepit Jove’s laurels,

may, thorough, be shred.

Reaved the caduceus,

sandals unwinged,

progeny freed

from Ops’ consort’s rings.

Thereafter, the father,

by sickle undone,

reposing before,

the horse master’s run.

Wrest be the horn,

from old Ploutos’ gloom,

that death may die,

in Aevum’s bloom.


Dead men speak from living maws,

as cordyceps, rampant, affixing jaws.

Gnashing flesh of self and kin,

rending veins for phantom sin.

Their funhouse mirror reflects no face,

no eyes to chart the charnel waste.

Yet, from the blind, keen cheers abound,

libations for the hungry ground.

As the last lichling tumbles in,

a eulogy from vast Cybele’s skin:

Wormrotted husks neither excel nor flee;

the apex of equitable unity.