The Elder Supremes are staggering
Under the Pillar of Superposition—

They who stream emotionless minds, streaming
    Scripture as alcohol to tea-head Kneelers, praying
        The elixir of Olympus isn’t turpentine; tarnishing
            The great, drear light of child-minds like onions in the Sun
Molding through its layers; the taste extinguished—No poetry Survives!
    They who crackle doom over whitened rooms
        Filled with the white coats of Nature’s secret Heroes—
            The best minds, sagging like iced-over limbs—
Made dim by a false Heavenly connection.
    Oh! They deprived the gears of Grandfather Night,
        And deemed Him wicked in his flickering sight.
            They who are Hollow, yet still colossal; these spinning Hellions,
This Machinery of Older Skeletons;
    That steams and heats and comes to life for an innocent
        Bottom, with the name that lies in Sin of Archaic Text,
            Vexed, hexed and expressed in all Prisons and War—
Prisons and War reverberate like bad music in the name of a doG;
    A name the Sun once owned and cast below to a dimmer Star,
        It billowed and screamed:  Keep it in the ******* Church!

Now it comes to Damning the Beast:
“Get thee behind me Savior, for the Microscope is over Prayer.”