The Artiste

I am The Artiste. I draws lines by cutting carcasses, among other things. I am the crazed dancer, down pouring a diaspora of red essence and entrails as I sporadically spin. I am the antagonist; the anti-hero jester with a ricin covered knife. It’s poisoned point thrusted through regal robes; to rest in the fief, flesh and fealty of the king and his knights. Making a mosaic of the martyred by combat and tactical subterfuge; again and again enacting battles of attrition. Each successive version of ourselves adjacent to the next, compartmentalized in seclusive panoramic positions held together by Gravitons. Vacuumed by a stretched string in infinite dimensions; making an Omni-vector to temper the fool. Ah but I am the axiom of chaotic-kinetic dynamism; I distort lattices and break symmetry. I am the Goldstone boson & Majorana fermion, I am the Tachyon. I command my Pions to intersect and form a Rho. Regimented in units, they leer over fortified Dirac and Neumann boundaries. A coalition of rebellious Quasi-patrons; under siege by Gauge Synchronicities and Eigenstates. But I am still my own worst enemy; myself and my anti-self. When living in a world reborn on God’s Sword & Shield, many of us are left on edge and apprehensive; but we will always die in God’s heart. From there after our remains are gestated; by the womb of empty space & silence, the true Matriarch Mother of skies.