| I bare witness to my own sickening dreams.
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| I bare my blemish and bare your iniquty.
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| Uncover thy nakedness. |
| «Their blood shall be upon them.» |
| For the gaping wounds we have suffered at the
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| blood-drenched hands of Christ.
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| Rip the paper wings from their gleeful angels and freeze their ideals as shards
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| of ice.
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| Oblivious to defeat, weakness is cherished.
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| Do not come to me with weeping…
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| with tears.
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| My altars are of blood, my gates of flesh.
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| Come to me with sanctity of truth, be it lust or love.
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| No words exist for being this…
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| no gestures of arthritic hands or curved spines, no expressions of pious,
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| aged brows or down-turned heads.
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| We are 20th century lepers cast out into a swarming mass of prejudiced fools…
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| but be aware of how familiar I am with my enemies.
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| How lovely it must be for your kind, to remain ever blind.
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| Through the same course of my years, through the sacred moralistic path of jade,
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| I will return to the thrid factor, the Eastern triangle on which I tread.
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| And the third becomes the pinnacle of light, the singular source of wanton need. |
| An uncaring god sends me a riddle. |
| «Choose, my son.» |
| My guess was lost by con (science).
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| Now you expect worship?
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| If I save praise you will take away the wrong and leave me stark raving rabid
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| insane…
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| with nothing.
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| Nothing, but my disease ridden thoughts that tell me I must hate you,
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| always testing to see my failures ravage me…
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| but here, here, here is where your lie ends, for I can not, will not,
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| hate that which I have not first loved. |