Paul Wimer

Simony: Paul Wimer

The strange pillows
of my demonic wanderlust –
corpses of assembly workers
tossed into ravines, shirked.
Broken quills from cloying tongues,
livid methamphetamine,
colliding space rocks from separate galaxies.

Into the utopian Florentine basin –
gold chains shackle slaves,
Nicholas’ shoes burn eternally.
Magi siphon psychic powers
from the saints.

I sold myself to royalty,
begged the vain archangels for autographs.

Now the marsh of White America
engulfs all soothsayers,
castrates the Netherworld.

No one man is a Cathedral.

The Hermit emerges from caked tar,
bubbling forth like Mercury.

I started to stop thinking about taking my life.

Alginate of the heart.