The strange pillows
of my demonic wanderlust –
corpses of assembly workers
tossed into ravines, shirked.
Broken quills from cloying tongues,
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.