O Time Thy Pyramids - An Unfinished Nightmare

Stirring beyond an endless gulf of apprehension Bent into the lurid autopsy of a mirror Pupils dilate, malign and unfamiliar As an ar-rangement of flies on a vacant windowsill

Lips dripping with bile and saliva Hands that burrow, burrow through organ and tumor

Our bodies like a crust of roaches Clot the earth's folds, rustling and filthy in this slowly-filling well of depravation For the love of god, will you not lower me the rope?

Am I throat or the hands at the garrote? A cyclic sacrament Rejoice in the blessings of misery and death

Are we not lain under the hill of Prometheus? Fallen upon the dagger, thy handle turn toward my hand?

The scar that precedes the falling of the blow The open grave which prefigures every birth I am the hand that wounds, I am the arch tower of guts and the arrow buried forever in its breast.

Do you know, then, who the others were, those you knew not the slightest about, who you once brought into your home at midnight and lay next to you like a good old lover? Did you perhaps know where they came from and where they went? Did you know which coffin was their daytime lodging before they came to you and after they left you? OAHS