“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.”