Sunset gilded… the horizon’s orange vapor is capital.
Long pigs gristle in the clinking wind
of a thorough typhoon of God’s
Rapturous Apathy.
But my Horse knows my Name
and cannot Die.
Not without a Canyon of explicit Cul-de-Sacs
as Viral as the Common Cold.
Perhaps a riveting ascent into the Aries
where a horned goat is throat prone?
where a slice of banquet is a Sacrifice-
to the Unknown?

Perhaps...