i Painted face sits shotgun on a pennyfarthing chakra ridden blindfold.
A twist of spine swings him pendular every beat, a half-finished bongo trill nudges black berets askew. Goatee stubble corrals galloping speech into enclosures.
Break comma stop.
ii The chorus, a fat thousand-eyed mollusk gapes: he juggles a bomb an asp a knife.
Does he drop the bomb, ****** the knife, let the poisonous snake bite?
With child's plainspokenness we play rock scissors paper with deathβs ivory hands waiting.
The marks whelp their joy clapping, weeping with the thousand hands and eyes of Guishan Guanyin.
Azrael's eyes drowned in narcotics ***** from the shadows. Pupils dilate, prolapse in a unison of aqueous humour.
A blur of dervish swallows the air spreads like virus.
iii Outside the amphitheatre wings grazing crumbling walls Azrael peddles dice.
"Worn from the teeth of a dead Logos," his voices sing his nebulae of tongues clicking against teeth arrayed like tombstones inside his abysses of mouths breath smelling of hemlock and grift. His stock sells out.
After a rainy night of craps we hissed graft in the whorl of the priest's ear. He went home to bed and dreamt of riches pouring from the wounds of sweat-shop children.
iv In the morning eight bells peal. Eyelids hummingbird beneath a black sun choking the sky over Styx.
Flayed by owls flendo cinere we bask in charcoal and spit obols into the ferryman's blistered hand.