“On the wall.”

Irony is the bastard’s craft.  The locus of heart & mind
is in the knowing to turn to stone, chameleon, or leap from
brim, or in wake of dirge, bereave the flood of griffins.
O Idiots from the lower realm must the murder explain!

Words are inordinate, only for Satyricon’s fertival of horns.
Shall I therefore presume, or illumined, conquer nobler chores?
Heroic in the flair I bead the rosary for mandala of dreams, turns—
Abandon  with vengeance rule mathematical, sorcery of error.

Thus for damning praxis:  O This circular locus of my deeds—
I, ignoble prince, alone keep the task & seal my minaret—
Conjure, cabala of powers, the world of proles & eccentrics.

“First is the human bond, convergence of all declensions.
Forewarned of scales, swallow the argument of words & gore:
Disengage, Narciso, from the mirror & leap onto our spoor.”

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