While the guillotine is a very un-English machine,
there are present fashions of execution. Many
nowadays have learned the common mechanics
of crucifixion in superior Byzantine fashion. They
who always ate in silence, barely cracking their jaws,
seeing the unseeing, untruths told to hide the darkest
places, at midnight come knocking, where the whip
comes down building fear and loathing into every wall.
Jesus spikes travel through the median nerves,
two breasts rise up from the dirt. The crowd
crane thier necks touching the bleeding wound
allowing life to surge forward. My thorny crown
drops on their bloated faces, forever in search of
its rose, a secret for a lover's knowing. Afraid, I
shalll slowly morph back into the body of a dead
artist, I sound two notes, falling and rising like
names of lost dogs; but, the devil knows I'm lost.
Death seems instantaneous; walking graves
and talking bones, until the light passes
through me, my hair rising with the wind shining
for all. I know this is the living air; a terrible cold
that breaks through my soul. By moon, Hecate, witch,
crone and mage, blow winds of anger from my skull,
these bones of rage upon my enemy before me now.
Hex of hate, I fear the evil man more than wild
of beast who cursed my soul with blackest fire.
I, too am never far away bringing darkness over
you in the Shades. With knots of discord that
bring us to our fate, we shall dance on the day
our limbs break free from the spirit. We'll walk
the stairs of seven where you have lost your Christ.
