Beneath my crown lounges
a pantheon of
small and desperate gods,
their smooth
flesh grown cracked and seamed
for want of
each others' attentions;
My
jackal-headed wit flashing her fangful grin
at no one and
nothing; her silent yellow-eyed
sidekick
nervously peeling his silky pelt raw;
the swollen one
that fills an alcove
curls his
elephant trunk, giggles softly
and tsks his
shame. Spray of water
on his knee
from the huge fish gasping
on the floor,
jaw crippled from its own weight, the hour hand
in its eye
twisting backward painfully.
A sad moon
like a discarded toadstool
strains to lift
a face scarred by boots.
And these
skeletal people crawling among them–
who are these
grovelers in stained robes?
Any demon worth
its salt would call them provender.
I will my
starving avatars
to eat these
pathetic cavern children
who stopped
feeding us with love,
whose stale
blood shall be poor substitute
no better than
unleavened bread,
their flesh dry
as paper spewed
from
ash-clogged machines,
but enough to
keep us alive till Oasis arrives.
Her voice tells
me I speak in symbols
only my own
small gods can read.
I tell this
sorry Oracle my hosts are blind.
Only one power
shines beneath this cemented dome,
burns Lucifer
bright, pure hatred pulsing.
See how these
godlings give their lives,
steam of spirit
rising from beast-headed bodies,
whorling into
One,
weaving the
gravity of rage.
This shall
grind
the bones of
the followers with the pestle of its will.
This will split
the Oracle's
face, spit sand in the screaming wound.
This will
sculpt a new, drooling face
from the moon's
erupting peaks,
this will goad
the elephant god to fly,
this will give
the shark's clockwork jaws
the strength to
ratchet closed.
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