Swans turn to elephants,
Elephants to insects,
Saint Anthony's tempted
With lust; run away from
Your naked ambition!
Dream, and awaken
Still dreaming, and scream
With the laughter of demons and perverted angels.

Death's a religion,
So tremble, impended!
The creatures that wander the desert are martyrs
The statues, flesh carvings,
Are fond of appendages,
Barren of faith, they are held up by only
The sticks and the canes of a poor artist's mercy,
Fighting the pull of time's two-pointed arrow
Struck to the heart and, unlike all creation,
It cannot be turned into wax or to rubber
By drawing or praying or writhing in vain;
Time's been exploded
But memory persists.

You've branded your canvas
With women and genitals,
Infants and tables,
With clean cut incisions
You've carved out their middles,
Turned rock into sky,
Enslaved humans as furniture;
Sculpt your soul raw, and still
You wont find mercy,
Or even the power
To fracture the world.

I'm not even sure
That it was your intention
To circumsize beauty
Or give us so rudely
An oil soaked glimpse
Of a vulgar infinity,
Fended off blindly
By paint splattered hands,
And twisted to tears
By a fractal imagination.