No head upon the Father of Lies,
Who, taking offense, plays the part of the martyred,
Sadly shedding dignity before his sons.
With vagrancy behind grotesque eyes
He teaches them how to pull a trigger,
End a lie, start a fire.
Nothing withheld from him but his own head,
Our Father is, by self-arrangement,
Passionately disturbed.
A kiss, then, is so unharmonious as to seal his fate,
Placed upon each boy’s neck,
Causing brothers to turn upon their own flesh,
Like ascetic bliss.
1 comment:
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