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Atop the winding tower,
Where the giddy gargoyles cascade,
A proud king wrapped in sapphire
Finds his bed alaid.He is a stitched together dread, bound of chicken bones and rich marrow,
Sorrow dripping from his mottled lips with each exhale,
A thousand wails of those left behind, his loves and foes, bountiful and luscious in either number,
As a sovereign - bejeweled in the wet ripples of torn flesh - prepares for careful slumber From four hidden corners - Scorch, Drown, Bury & Tear - his son’s shift restlessly,
This majestra has sewn his seeds far and few between,
Wretches of many rising up; forged from gouged bowl and broken spleen,
None quite as too-be-adored as the lord, his pure blue shades of debauchery stained with the last remains of many,
Fools and heroes, blurred into a wavering, prancing mass, victories touch devoid to anyThe giggling, sniggering titters of the grotesques,
His shallow proxy-doxies who pollute the horizon,
Splutter and squeal, blind if any are truly bestBut our lord - our beautiful, beguiling lord of blue (so many wriggling, cavorting shades of restless sea and idle sky)
Remains to be awed and adorned even when resting,
For he is all to be known as true; within the mass expanses of his pulsating soul
The glimmers of maddened genius, pungent in scent,
As inescapable as His overview. For he is honest perversion.Fields, mushed mulch of rotted weeds and stinking shit,
The petty ends of a land he has not touched; uncleansed and petty,
All forms of blue held back. Scrubbed away by the unworthy.Along the sidelines, pasty and poised, hands scrabbling at keys.
Carved from supple bones, only grasped by little girls and boys,
Masses of His following - creed and character vast and mapping; a spider web spun across a dozen pastures - await in eager joy.
For they cannot contain themselves, at the behest of a new ploy,
Where the words trickling from His fangs and tongue weep and claw upon such eager disciples,But within the tower,
The hurdy-gurdy, higgledy-piggledy tower.
Only quiet rings out upon the hour.Upon the gentle touches of the Doxon’s, gentle and whispering as a love’s kiss,
Fleeting and chaste; consumed by sincerity.
For the rich blood that flows rife, quick and subtle, snaking down the heart’s throat; shall nourish a tired god. Aged and wisened by decades of life.
Sleep is well-earned. A reward for such a king, plagued by disobedient strife.Atop the winding tower,
Where the giddy gargoyles cascade,
A proud king wrapped in sapphire
Finds his bed alaid.