Golden Void

The hive clock thunders
12 before noon
12 before mid-night
riddles of light process
problems disconnected
from vulgarity and ifs.

High calibre souls appear
to misfire against the priestly
caste of prisoner 38, returned
home with rights against
the panacea of nothingness
filling his horizon.

We must all drink poison
with free-thinking animals
carrying a certain voltage
of distrust
disguised as expression.

The social plane (let's call it 93)
is without power,
as are the beautiful, never the happy ones
because a blonde beast settles at their core.

Gentleman are tired of gentleman.

Birds of pray flap
against misleading errors
of language a demand
duplicated by those who never
attack self deception or neutral

In grimy workshops,
counterfeiters work blessed fingers
through fabrics of spittle
and bad air, manufacturing
ideals in muttering light
fain with submission
and obedience.

is God hiding himself?
Me too made eternal
love. Me too made
eternal hate and the ecstasy
of martyrs, or so
it stands written.