Mer lithlaug tur sagaralaugur khresh. Durgnar duri gutha esh.
Lightning dwarf, I love you.
Straddling an abyss of death foretold, the stumpy legs of ego fall short,
but hope perdures.
Crisscrossing, indolent, intent but malcontent in your absence,
sweet lighting dwarf.
How can this one, but a sad initiate of your mysteries, ever begin
to fathom the depth of your furious scribblings?
Return to us, lightning dwarf, that we may know the unspoken joys
beneath your beard,
the lonely trails beneath your feet.
Your pen (or is it mine?), the hammer of heaven,
lays bruised butterfly strokes on an anvil betwixt Venusian whiskers,
aquiver with the buzzing bees of your scent,
a honeyed patina on the dawn, the promise
ultimate after untold lonely nights.
A soul bereft, yet doppelganging duplicity lies in shadows, striving for the one.
Twin souls tumble forth to the light.
Like some Thesmophoric euphoria creeping heroically heavenward from your geocentric egocentric concentrically circular narcissistic wet dream, you remember at last the Platonic Idealization that will wash clean your cephalic pomegranate with dogpiss and suds. Surfing the swells of thanatological thalassic ejaculate that tastes like a chickenscratch hieroglyphic suicide note, rolling rocks and papers uphill and downwind and asking the only important question with your boy Sisyphus, vacationing in that ancient historical hotspot in your brainstem, they should have warned you that getting this religious entailed a constant flirtation with the underworld. Don’t forget a few bucks for the boatman. Having been put in charge of the corruption of 93 pathologically developing minds weaned on Empty-V capitalist muck-culture, you suck down the pharmaceutical hemlock like so much ambrosia, building your Pyramid of the Sun over the Cavern of the Shadow. (The way up is the way down.) It’s best to keep that shit locked up tight, well-tempered like a clavier, foul-tempered like a broken Node of Ranvier. A grain goddess, a grape god, and that great gay ape gaping in the nape of your pithy beanscape stroll saucily into a shantytown watering hole. Try doing some magic with that papyrus platter instead of eating so many Sloppy Franzes. Frankly, Fritzyboy, these jokes senza punchline are waxing quite tiresome and waning on the coherence. This is the evolutionary rationalization justifying everyone’s bad habits but your own, so roll yourself into a too-tight arthritic joint, role yourself into another unexpected and unearned authoritative archetype, and continue to pine hazily for the erstwhile day when breadwinning didn’t necessitate soulwhoring. Snorting lines of Sahidic Coptic and the dust of decomposed angels, you fall for the kingcraft of a crown chakra conspiratorially scheming with the sacral vertebrae snaking their way into the iron fortress of your will. The stinking fat lie at the foundation of the social contract pins your furry shoulders to the sweaty canvas of impotent infinite longing.