Every fucking slot scraped clean

Am I godly?

I too with a terrible smile
And an unholy glow

A hand on the thigh
Finger to my lips

Slowly

Am I godly?

Licking the Sun
Quiet like angels

The spilling of blood
Quiet like angels

Shhh

Am I the God victorious
The blade of glory

Hand to throat
Mouth to ear

Shhh

What traces remain?

An empire, a dream

A robust stench
A genetic trace

Of life

Such finery
Golden

Then a dream into a dream into a dream into a dream

What traces remain?

Of me

Speaker


Saint James in the garden

Sir James at the patio


Intercisus

Didn't it rain?