huskrow

the pillar,
and amen -
       say to me again, when the blooming frotting of the opal truss                                 blanched across the wicker ambit, lattices of spider gut 
       noosed about necks

       the heat whetting the morningstar’s appetite, and here it was

       the whispering whorl, of a chiastic fronzen orgy

        agglogl, -
        bagophlegmatic -
        aggophobos -
        baphomet -

fettled, with arachne disease, poplar wilt and huskrow blight -
       and it stank, as our grandfather lopped down galloping virgins in the pining 
       throes of the night, when the stars cry out for the clammy touch of human

       soul - 

       if only those lucid infernos of holocaust
       were openings
       not all things

i, fluttering into the dismal kiss of solanum
would crush proximal row,
to dredge into the greater nothing-

                a great, white
                in lieu of our great, great black

                and think of her, the black yonic nebuchadnezzar
                and the whippet gash of the golden one 
                who appeared crone

                and

                she struck her foetal mortal slip into octalthrall 
                spasmic collapse

     for weaving,
     for something as simple as weaving.

and now she weaves us,
silken puppets of tenebrous vigor
poor thing, brash haired and brainless
useless and spineless,

    weaving - weaving

for no reason at all,

          and that is the answer, why?
          no reason at all