(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.
Rider in eternity
In a holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the Black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus
I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun
For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”
I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the colour of swamp
Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles, here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)
image found here
The word lost power, but the power lost not the word.
From weary mouths rests in diction
In the age of apocalyptic, wonderful miracles.
The Grand Idiot will be fed by Earth
And the meek will be buried under it.
Miracles prevail over Courteous Miracles
From the cliff of eyes
Into the imaginary house
Under the dead tongue
Acrimony wants to plot.