*** with a *******, clean cut
or what's called the guillotine
mark...
           simple economics
without spaghetti heart
   that becomes inherited ****-brains
and instead of a cartesian
dualism, of a body shared
with a mind & vice versus...
   a dichotomy of body, contra mind...
god and ontology, or rather:
it was always going to be
governed by exploring the crux
of p.s. golgotha, namely a cage,
invisible nails, and the peddlestool...
hanging, tied, drowning
while upright in a gas chamber
of readied oxy...
   as Elite Johnny spanked
Nikita...
          while chilling off gangrene
mingled with frostbite...
       a tale of lonely sailor harbored
at Amsterdam...
          nonetheless?  a clean
transaction... spaghetti mind
and a vacuum, yes...
he died less for our sins and more
for the fickleness of our hearts...
HE DIED LESS FOR OUR SINS AND MORE
FOR THE FICKLENESS OF OUR HEARTS!
     a fickle heart assures a broken
mirror, a steady heart,  like stone thrown
into a glacier rigid lake,
allows ripples and a time continuum,
unlike the former and a spatial
rigidness, Librache and the twice
unseen, milking of cows,
2nd virgins who aged 80 wished
they had their first Lust Vegas....
the ****? Slot machines?
                 America died having
made its 8th *** puritanism...
   what aches the heart transcendent
above poetic vanity,
giving a pauper a sandwich,
or ******* down a drain
or into an umbrella worth of copper
age penny artefacts?
    good with faces:
   watching movies...
    Achilles' cousin...
           son of flynn...
            patroclus...
                      on the odd occasion
I'll buy a pint of milk, a loaf of bread,
fix my grandmother's remote control,
fix the shower, spend rather than buy
an hour with a *******...
given that I can't own what I spend
and given that I spend on some "thing"
that I can't buy because I don't own it...
the milkman in England begins his chore
just after midnight...
nocturnal creature, a fetishist regarding
snowy illumination of the night
come later winter...
         an hour for a year's worth
of celibacy...
    a clean guillotine transaction
and no spaghetti labyrinth of the heart...
conjure up heartless psychopaths
who feed off the weaknesses
of the mind...
             and who duly understand
a heart's fickle nature...
HE DID NOT DIE FOR OUR SINS
FOR BE FORGIVEN,
    HE DIED TO REDEEM OUR HEARTS'
FICKLE NARRATIVE,
BOORISH, OVER-DELUDED
PREDICTABLE FICTIVE THEATRE..
perhaps an asteroid
       would be less of a worry,
had we the courage
to have to stomach a yawn of deities...
but we don't...
            the asteroid prime
shields us from
                           the apathy the gods
have naturally succumbed to...
however magical a revision
of prayer might take place...
     post scriptum of adventure
comes industrialisation,
claustrophobia mingled with insomnia...
mechanisation and
the crooked unpredictability
of gambling...
so much so, that even prostitutes
can stomach a reciprocated
responsibility of *** as recreation...
         but, it would appear...
   *** isn't exactly deemed
     a recreational endeavour...
     hard to stop one's testimony
on a canvas that deems
this pleasure, a ball & chain,
frivolity of gossip,
                  the ugliest of, chores;
toward the nunnery and toward
Mars...
              with *** as chore
and motherhood as a job...
                        came the cemented
cross, wriggling toward an end,
with a poppy seed's worth of width
    of distance
covered per year...
     vibrations sub-audio.