Scream, horned altar, to the River Guards
and make them bind the currents
for a mighty swarm.
Prophet, number not the horde.
Scream, horned altar, to the paraclete
and let the One who now constrains
step back. Permissions now are granted;
vermin lust for men
and men all lust to die
as solar spasms dry
their favorite sores.
Did you not think of days when you would chew your tongue?
Did you not know your name is written down
in God’s own blood, and streaked in God’s own tears?
Did you not think your entries would be summed?
Just cringe, you whores, and don’t attempt to run.
Permissions now are granted;
The fugitive world is felled;
The One who knows no sin now stoops to choose a stone.