Gatherer Of The Pure
He's a man of the world, but his is a small world,
being a world whirled and whipped inside a filth caked skull.
All a dalliance in delusion, all dreamed down in narcotic seclusion,
he peeps all askance through all and sundry;
three dimension unreality his fourth dimension play-day.
All eternity a rainy Sunday.
He, a builder of worlds in dreams.
He, a destroyer of worlds in dreams.
Feculent plots / hatch / fester / fry.
Subsistence burnt black, effulguent brain pan besmirched.
Labours of love ladled into ravenous toilet bowl of life.
All lost souls to feat upon fresh hot meal of voided bowel.
He, a leacher of colour. He, a void in sanity.
A poisoner of the well, instiller of winter's gray flavour.
A spasmed spatter of the obvious, a-soiling gleaming uncertainty.
On a lonely wander through twisting streets of Yonder,
his one good eye spying, prying, a shadow play for yesterdays.
All tomorrows, all yesterdays today,
Carrion Crow, pinch-faced proprietor of this sorry sideshow.
Roll up, roll up! Crack cranks his codeine calliope,
all is vibrant colour without his vermined bone box.
All within, bleak nothing - all without to pay homage, at his insistence.
Cosmic keys broken in twisting locks of lost infinities.
His worlds all a-fire now, a Lucifer turning in listless circles,
before landing in the dry hay of thoughts half-remembered.
Evensong their last song.
Pray for the prey! Sing for your supper!
Funeral pyres for one and all today.
As hand of God to give,
as hand of God to take away.