The Golem Maker

Posted on: Tuesday, September 25th, 2018

“And on the eight day, God sang, ‘Let there be gays!'”

good-spirited fast-track and fool of fracking,
leak and let leak, freak–
again, leak and let leak, the savagely beautiful–

Her name is the effigy I throw around to get
a little less attention and a little more fake sympathy–
O’, you fakers, clear as the days of my caretakers,

are you good? fluid as the soul can be?
high as the revelation of some fortune stripped across your bow,
hammered like the Almighty oiled up and ready for a show?

good, good, let me tell you something, then–
every year, I find myself digging deeper and deeper into my pessimistic ventures, and it has gotten boring–
I have decided to love life in yearning for its prescience to love me back, so I wait, and I wait to be loved back,

but a pessimist never knows how to hold out hope, extends only in adoratio–
this world, the absence of it… the hauntings of the innocent times… they play, and play loud, they do…
I told the remainders of me as gravediggers tales of my apologies, the twenty-eighth Era that will never be so flawed,

“the world doesn’t have to be so bleak, y’know? the world can shift around its mood, too…”
and so, the tablet thrust to me something like a swift pike:
“And on the eight day, God sang, ‘Let there be beauty!'”, and born was beauty out of stone–

God hath rested, God hath cleared Her mind,
bored already of Her creation, she created beauty to create more beauty–
but this beauty was doomed to never birth before, so beauty was misunderstood

here we are, the sapplings– am out for blood, am out of blood–
snazzy violators and toppling everywhere–
every sense of direction is a privilege withdrawn–

in the morning, the looters,
in the evening, inhospitable spits of vagary,
cartillaged open hits for friendly firers,

haggard in hazards and amplified radiations of sense
and they enjoyed the drama as they enjoyed each other, enjoyed the world,
enjoyed the straws of sanity like one enjoys defense–

but volatile are the voices of pro-lacerations for where the gray suits are the unsullied as understudies doing
dutty wine for baritone demons cussing, fussing about nothing, doing nothing but abolishing uptight marshalls of air and heir–
the guitar folds and weeps– the replete manteia manoeuvres and claymores, and my immolations bailed–

I count back from three– the first God, the second, my third…
active oversee-ers of archipelagos long lost tend to the gardens of stone and of moss–
trauma surgeons and thaumaturgists are at a toss–

and, like in many of in-many-a-days, I have no idea what to do today
for where are my residuals? and where are my daydrinkers?
parched from the beer of ignominy and non-ignorance are my big-wigged brothers,

flocking like a candy storm and almost as suffocating– almost as fatherless–
but fearlessness here shall call like bellhops from Normandy,
their skulls are as unhollowed as the almost-golden bones of the never discovered myths with their halos…

but the ninth day is mine…
there and there and back, from the windshield, I stutter, my reject butterflies shrudder
no less lonely and lovey-dovey as having them to circle back after I shake like forty bags of mixtures,

and my tinctures are perfect in form, already, petrified in form, already…
shoulders here arête and shoulders here aplenty!
I am a bandwagon being,

am not a God, but can create, too, if sparse and unequally, and loudly…
I have made myself a golem that no golem has ever given me!
I breathed my life part to stone and it cracked like a yellow chickling!


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