Of fatal head-wounds, beasts, and kings
my holy muse, avenging, sings
and mocking, scorns
the ten kings’ horns
while greater wisdom brings.

Divide ten horns on seven heads;
numeric challenge overspreads . . .
Ten for seven ?
Thus does Heaven
plan to up your meds.

Seven candlesticks, vials of wrath
first lit, then poured, shall light your path
toward paradise;
and shall suffice
in holy aftermath.

Such Hebrew numerology:
an Antichrist apology.
No death in vain.
Those babies slain?
Pure semiology.

You come with true prophetic zeal
the Revelation to unseal;
and yet, I doubt
what you’re about . . .
you need a balanced meal.

Nutcase: extraordinary
measures may prove necessary.
Vitamin B
deficiency
turns you visionary.

Good supplements might help your brain
and God Himself perhaps might deign
to grant some light
and ease your plight
till truth and love remain.

Go, crack the Book. Let us resume
the cryptic parable of doom;
Saint John raving
(text worth saving)
lightens the End-Time gloom.

Voice of many waters’ thunder
barely startles . . . on we blunder.
Shut up and buy—
demystify
as barbarians plunder.

Of jeweled harlots, rising wars
and opening of infernal doors,
near-psychotic
occult logic
breeds the juggernaut spores.

Those seven churches, now long-gone,
return once more in light of dawn.
Prophetic ghosts
in ****** hosts
give birth: prophetic spawn.

The fabled fornication-wine,
unholy, though no less divine . . .
we drain the cup—
our time is up;
all hail the Lord’s design.

Archetypal memes of madness:
slaughtered saints revive with gladness
the slain lamb’s life
brings end to strife
and closure to our mess.  

Sharpen your dull Christology,
fanatic eschatology:
void of logic—
semiotic
misanthropology . . .  

Delta of the dark Euphrates:
something from the bowels of Hades
issues forth
to test the worth
of Babylon’s ladies.

Cool out, my brother. Close the book.
It’s not the end yet; take a look.
Glimpse the city—
what a pity . . .
omens have got you shook.

These frightening prophetic screeds
should urge you more toward Christian deeds;
not satanic
modes of panic,
but meeting human needs.

The predatory drones of war,
infernal technoids from the core
of smoking earth
are finally worth
their scrap—and little more.

A desert woman clothed with sun;
Abaddon’s legions on the run
as they retreat,
admit defeat:
the Devil’s doings, done.

The reign of Antichrist now ends
the host of heaven, triumphant, rends
satanic skies;
before our eyes
the Bride, adorned, descends.

And though my muse shall never quit,
her inspiration lags a bit;
apostates curse,
the world grows worse—
the Devil throws a fit.

Of beasts and fatal head-wounds healed
and wrathful angel’s scrolls unsealed
I’ve had enough,
and call God’s bluff:
Apocalypse revealed.