Sing, Agathos Daimon,
of augur eyes inaugurally augenblinking.
A pile of betrayals, ripe with flies,
wasn’t enough to open them,
but that Nth-plus-one turned the dirty trick,
a lost cause found, tinkering the soul’s goal
on the track to forgetfulness’s funeral.
Grandmas sent the dirty donkey subbing, Old Reliable,
for the team’s hot stallions in a lather of neurosis.
The bifurcation fallacy foisting the metaphysics
of isolation, religion for the all the pronouns but I.
Alone again with Lucky Lucius, trudging
heavenward grain by grizzle in the desert of the fo rizzle?
This shit, the death throes of Will’s compromise
trumpeting a rictus righteous of rite and long,
uninterrupted autophagia, hemorrhaging Herms
screaming scandal at the crossroads.
Poor tinker just tryin to make his scratch.
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