Spiritual Mafia
word string you make my heart sing
you make everything groovy
but I wanna know for sure
the slaver's noose is no sower of truth
and its cohort of prediction
open eyed jumping to no order
because invention is the outcome of battle
a confusion of holy unknowns
sacrificing yesterday every waking moment
broadcast reluctantly on the Shaman Network
a necromancer's narrative no one's necessity
when posting lookouts for treachery
and treachery and treachery
a psychic dictatorship of the personal
knowing what is knowing a hope magnet
touted for all those shadowy universals
and their bouncing billiard balls
cue sticked into consciousness
by sinuous Stilletta Strandhanger
you want a happy finish sailor
my Sarmatian wet works trainer
a fist full of arrows for her pillow
no victory without danger she gasps
as the bed collapses underneath us
scattering the manor mastiffs
across a wide and blazing horizon
Hungarian violins all glissando in the firelight
apparently the natural order isn't
latest office memo lit up in neon across
my three pounds of fatty gray matter
dynamited off the tracks by her sappers
knocked all my conclusions akilter
left me staring into an obsidian mirror
with weaponized wonderment
should have nixxed me off the map
when you had the chance Still
what stayed your bowstring Still
who is really in charge up there
where all our ideas dance and glint
like sabers awaiting the melee hand
one of them mine
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