Bloodspiller

As this days sun grows coral,
The sacrifice is brought up,
To the apex of this temple,
Our golden pyramid,
This one shall suffice,

The sacred hymns are recited,
Drawing the scrutiny of the gods,
My obsidian blade is held in thirsty readiness,
The time is upon us,
Two small eyes grimace up,

‘Tetatzin…?’

The blade falls,
The vessel is pierced,
The pantheons wine is spilled,
Painting the glimmer of this place,
My people ring out in hysteria,

We become phrenetic in holy awe,
Aloft a warm youthful heart is held,
Hesitating to still beat,
Huitzilopochtli drink deep,
And be praised by this act.

The Strongman

To the freakshow I went,
Yes I did,
To see the Strongman,
To gawk upon him was to see a titan,
A toned personification of divine motif,
A visual ambrosia,

His body had been created by sorcery surely,
Built with tales as tall as any colossus,
His arms the girth of proud redwoods,
His chiselled chin had even cleft the canyons,
He whose stance holds asunder continents,
He whose shoulders could lift up the sky,

Metaphor only scrapes the surface,
The circus lights hid much of his humanity,
He was superhuman,
In another time,
A more simple time,
He could have been named a god,

Unnatural,
A freak.

Skyfall

I once cultivated a dream,
Or was it a nightmare?
Of all of us being thrown from the heavens,
Down to a globe-shaped tartarus,
A rapture of a different kind,
Billions of little Lucifers,
Free-willed and vivid meteors,

Free falling in masses,
Our malice and parasitism in tow,
A sky ablaze in tangerine and ruby,
A storm on the horizon,
Were we being punished?
Or was this a punishment for Earth?
Were we the penance?

Sloth

Do not call me lazy,
Despite my outward performance,
This dreamy cobalt haze,
Thralldom to a demonic apathy,
One of the seven,
Weighing ones limbs down,
But moreso ones soul,
Rendering all effort as wasteful,

Have you even met Sloth?
That cruel vice of lethargy,
A disinterest in ones own life,
Leaden disinterest in betterment,
A zombie of no necromantic persuasion,
I find myself slave to this sinful trail,
A yellow brick road to ruin,
To live is needless exertion.

The Dervish

He is whirling,
Devout in his movements,
The aches in his legs mean nothing,
Physical exertions to praise the upper,
Let the spiritual ecstasy never cease,

Spin and praise,

Upon the sunburned steps of Istanbul,
His ebony robes appear a turbine,
The whirling continues,
A trance-like tornado of limbs,
Arousing his soul,

Spiral in wajad,

This Dervish and his euphoric twirl,
Is closer to immortality than I could dream,
Each priestly rotation brings further enlightenment,
The whirling shall not stop,
Not until salvation bears its head.

Strangling Divinity

I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,

Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,

Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,

My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,

We are our own gods now.