In Our Temperate Dimension

in our temperate dimension brimfull of flesh humour life's grand arena we're all made champions of Nod with laurel wreaths of hot wire and gristle, with gilded medallions hung on faded ribbon, bent when bitten, signifying nothing, echoing hollow cries of fickle crowds that don't give a damn huzzahs sharp with only a blood thirst, we shred, we claw, we saw all the bones, crazy for the marrow, sprinkle a scalp with love or not, marinate with greedy benedictions, basted in the eyes of grinning gods, with just a jigger of black hate and conviction anyone can feast like horselords racing hot winds on the plain zealot riders of a crimson sage in their longhouses darkly lie gorging upon flesh of ourselves sizzle crack'd on spits turned slowly by shrouded imps grinning, ghastly grinning at the joke that no one gets...