Back in the before we could blame the kings
Now it’s we who ourselves badly king it
It’s we who’ve raised up chimeric nightmares,
Caligula’s and Henry of 8’s spliced
At the groin, vessels of malignancy,
Their power an emptiness, dark absence
That must be filled and never filled can be
Swallowing our ignorance, hatred, sloth
Like twilit stars collapsed to radiate
In poisonous jets lies, distortions, blame
Of the innocent and nearly guilty
Projecting their own darkness through our lens
They’ll thieve the halls of our sacred palace
Its doors never fully opened but might;
Distant thunder the collapsing columns
Under the four corners of what was built
For us all and that they now claim as theirs
The keys handed to us and handed them
To destroy and remake as rubble,
Foundations for bone towers they will raise
Of dreams, of hopes, the uncomplaining dead-
Riding not on clouds with horseman and scales
But slouching on our own backs, they will come.
–The Cursing Poet, aka, SAB
Rev. 1/12/24
The Cursing Poet 