How beauteous is thy creation that she sags of my circle; years of suffering for and against my animal, waiting for meaning to show its incisors so I might howl another perception without actually having to turn the screw. That I might entertain another story, another butler with a cloaked dagger, that again and again and again, moaning and groaning upon the lever, my unreasonable attempt to escape Heaven, disguised as agony, strives at putting holes in all truth. Stagger and fall, knees sinking, empty of grace, joy, love, forgiveness, compassion, hope. Goodness dozing with the meek- A romantic couple drenched in oil- 70-inch flat-screen HDTV ® with surround noise, another slap to Mother’s face. A made for cinema movie right in man’s dying-room, coming to a theatre near the couch so this jackal with a dream and a grudge and ownership might witness his own murderous dream; supremacy, second coming, self-fulfilling preparation, death. (The first time’s never as convincing as the s
(The Weaver's Song)