Black Tower

thunders within the wounds of legends. covered in a sensory roar of death. which fills death itself with the nocturnal bombardment of shooting stars. ruptures along the comforts of a fire revealed in the sky. blessed be this fire. a sacrament which crucifies the flames. hallucinations and hallelujahs framed about this face which realizes the destiny of imaginary dragons that serve as decorations for the noisy rending of an indefinite darkness. expressing the submission of a weeping voice which cannot recognize its own light.

sudden fire
born in the sky
the animated mannequin
of carrion man
whose music is reduced
to an arithmetic
of unperverted pantomimes
regarding only lies

living points of reference
like raging voices
spoiled through stunned time
in a wilderness of eyes.

blessed be this fire. oh crucifier of flames. blessed be the recipriocal destruction that reduces us to pieces. blessed be the power of your manic kin who rage through names. already falling into pieces. little breaths and brittle intonations purge the dim echoes which haunt our blurry dreams. the black tower. by the clarity of its own constructrion. bent all angles toward its interior. so that it would make a trembling circle. congealed. responding to the vague traces that correspond to nothing.

the kings of books were really demons making suits of hair and books of skin. the priests were transmorphic soldiers with hollowed eyes and lips of lightening. the soldiers were circles chasing their tails and annihilating the homes they'd built out of bones. they erected shrines to their kings under the direction of puppets and amputated the limbs of their own god, consuming it as a sexual talisman. the monuments were slaves and the slaves were monuments betraying their children to the fangs of manifestation. their eyes like garments dangling from chandeliers. betraying their constitution to a lord who fantasized about being a god and yawned.