point of departure
Posted: November 2nd, 2014, 11:53 pm
The last object of mystery on Nietzsche's face
strange illuminated moustashe floating
above the world like a piece of space trash
as if he had been eating assassins temple hash
like some reverse taboo going back into evolution
everything once pondered had to go through convolution
walking backwards through death camp amusement parks
all the wars of history, all the written words have not stopped
they keep turning the pages, looking for the point of departure
the point of it all, of no eternal return, do they never learn
the words raining now on the bloody pages, flapping in the wind
the pages have been torn out of the forbidden book of the dead
and used to light the alchemical fires at the end of time
a memory of forgotten magic that once spoke the language
of the gods
that really is a manifesto of revolution, disguised as poetry
the pages turning faster now like they are on crystal meth
shooting constant reminders through their veins like arrows
the stuff of our dreams peopled with the dreaming masses
shouting for answers no matter how the answer passes
before the misguided religions of mannequins and popes
and the flood of witches who once danced naked
between the worlds, between the conflagrations of sparrows
balanced on the head of the needle of tomorrow and oblivion
all those lovely winged flames going up in a whisper of smoke
toward the throne of melliferous glyphs rotating in the crown
of thought
strange illuminated moustashe floating
above the world like a piece of space trash
as if he had been eating assassins temple hash
like some reverse taboo going back into evolution
everything once pondered had to go through convolution
walking backwards through death camp amusement parks
all the wars of history, all the written words have not stopped
they keep turning the pages, looking for the point of departure
the point of it all, of no eternal return, do they never learn
the words raining now on the bloody pages, flapping in the wind
the pages have been torn out of the forbidden book of the dead
and used to light the alchemical fires at the end of time
a memory of forgotten magic that once spoke the language
of the gods
that really is a manifesto of revolution, disguised as poetry
the pages turning faster now like they are on crystal meth
shooting constant reminders through their veins like arrows
the stuff of our dreams peopled with the dreaming masses
shouting for answers no matter how the answer passes
before the misguided religions of mannequins and popes
and the flood of witches who once danced naked
between the worlds, between the conflagrations of sparrows
balanced on the head of the needle of tomorrow and oblivion
all those lovely winged flames going up in a whisper of smoke
toward the throne of melliferous glyphs rotating in the crown
of thought
