You doting companions,
masters of mercy,
full of faults
and ever-forgiving,
delighters of spoils,
caveats of violence,
greeters of God,
givers of light,
gatekeepers of disaster,
lost in the balance
of chaos and necessity
and are most deserving
of love.

Moral Perfection needs to be precise:
Each piece
requiring of its creator,
an ounce of blood.

Trash and imitations
are made of sweat.

I want not;
what oozes so freely
from your glands,
needing mere effort.

Give crimson!
Strike a knife
across your flesh…

Bleed!
Take solace,
for your form is incompatible
with the sciences.

Spume me not logic;
for art requires
one’s impetus passion.

-Magic Israel