We will construct contraptions, great - alight
with eyes a-wash with white, glazed over a
web of spider silk. Cloths of the great dead –
calcify like tombs in those gypsy orbs
of pineal blindness. Reflecting life.
Receptive mouths are the entrances
to these grand caves, lined with sensuous lips
that will swallow and consume greedily.
They trap hollowness 'til it fills them,
stewing inside like stale pyramid air.
Cornucopic ears echo with phantom
whispers, setting dusty cogs in motion,
‘til they dance to records of rhetoric.
Only then will our idols wake, and rise
with the sun, spilling blood from their mouths like
water. Fortifying the great lands in
death. These idols you will worship like gods –
and offer your resources, your lives, and
children. These sacrifices you will make
so Saturn may eclipse the soul of the earth,
making powder of precious petals. You
may prey then that you can be an idol
(that great dream to consume so not to be
consumed). Then you’ll stand (soul-sucked), but as grand
and solid as the mountains. An artful
idol, safely preserved in majestic
marble. Your tomb can foreshadow the doom
of hell on earth. So that rooted raw with
base philosophies, you can over-look
death, while crunching on the bones of children.