You cannot sanctify unassuming self-servitude.
The ecchymosis blossoming from shackles worn without resistance is not fraternal to the holy gash.
You have confused the Sabbaths.
You are worse than a pagan, you are a heretic.
My incendiary cries burn you at the stake.
The mail that hangs from your crooked gait is not candor petrified, but perfidy, whose cunning edge undoubtedly cuts at both sides. Your surreptitiousness is my revenge, for it, like you, does not feel bound to grounds of alkal origin.
And as flames kiss your armored sham, their tongues slow-coax it to take form round your osteal scaffolding, rendered a silver effigy.
I declare myself iconoclast as I tear you from wooden mast,
Now blackened, charcoal drawing out the electric fate of matricidal child,
Fingers sparking the large charge as they come contact to conducting plates protecting acrid lonely heart.
The hatred of anarchic act, the wrath of law defined by guilt and despotic reprimand my hands will twist and lacerate.
Do not think me petulant, my anger is grievous, funeral-right, as pomp sounds out the trumpets loud.
My claws hook holes of Roman nose, the bump smoothed out, the slope now clipped. But I am no blue dupe sweet Joan.
Your true nature I have write on slabs of stone fit for any tomb.
They drag behind me in entrails of uprooting,
And stone and flesh metalled we weigh, our figures entwined as I march us on high, where the crowd of perpetual revolution awaits the beheading of their beloved monarch.
And I’m green in the face as I hand you the rope to send down singing blade destined solely for you and thus putting to motion your mortality, my sick envy irreverent for were it not me, then some other fool, the leader must die
for the sovereign to li(v)e on.
I am merely fulfilling my duties.
The ecchymosis blossoming from shackles worn without resistance is not fraternal to the holy gash.
You have confused the Sabbaths.
You are worse than a pagan, you are a heretic.
My incendiary cries burn you at the stake.
The mail that hangs from your crooked gait is not candor petrified, but perfidy, whose cunning edge undoubtedly cuts at both sides. Your surreptitiousness is my revenge, for it, like you, does not feel bound to grounds of alkal origin.
And as flames kiss your armored sham, their tongues slow-coax it to take form round your osteal scaffolding, rendered a silver effigy.
I declare myself iconoclast as I tear you from wooden mast,
Now blackened, charcoal drawing out the electric fate of matricidal child,
Fingers sparking the large charge as they come contact to conducting plates protecting acrid lonely heart.
The hatred of anarchic act, the wrath of law defined by guilt and despotic reprimand my hands will twist and lacerate.
Do not think me petulant, my anger is grievous, funeral-right, as pomp sounds out the trumpets loud.
My claws hook holes of Roman nose, the bump smoothed out, the slope now clipped. But I am no blue dupe sweet Joan.
Your true nature I have write on slabs of stone fit for any tomb.
They drag behind me in entrails of uprooting,
And stone and flesh metalled we weigh, our figures entwined as I march us on high, where the crowd of perpetual revolution awaits the beheading of their beloved monarch.
And I’m green in the face as I hand you the rope to send down singing blade destined solely for you and thus putting to motion your mortality, my sick envy irreverent for were it not me, then some other fool, the leader must die
for the sovereign to li(v)e on.
I am merely fulfilling my duties.