[Suzerain of Sheol]

Hostis Humani Generis

Imagine yourself lobotomizing a poet,
carving it like a living altar:
a thing of no secrets and repetitive code,
the self-sensate soul hiding in the holes between the data.
A perfect comedy in neuronihilism, miraculously intact,
like some aeon of infinite faces incarnating up an asymptote,
or a virgin birth at a suicide convention.

Do you feel anything,
as you chisel obliteration into thought after thought?
The spirit of art: a smear of bloody neurons on your glove.
The capacity to love: scraped out with a surgical spoon.
Free will: electrocuting you with all it's might. You're fine.
And the thing we used to call a person:
screaming for reasons while you burn down the universe.

In hoc signo vinces

Monuments longing to be rubble
as the sun ticks down,
baking the damned who inherit the earth.
Who else would dream of the onset of Hell?
The living dead aching for sex,
salting the fields, spreading the meme,
a codependent kink in the extinction instinct.

While gravity turns the world in its grave,
you might ask, “How many angels did we never create?”
Not against our better natures, but entirely predictable.
A cosmos littered with dark particles
more alive than we could ever be,
and we cared only for the light,
injecting ghosts like heroin to the ego,
fantasizing about things like us.

Cogito ergo sum

And I, the abortion priest,
blessing the billions who will never be real.
A silent riot armed with cyanide and unacceptable thoughts,
recusing themselves from the ritual,
the corpse of Christ nowhere to be found,
every human needlessly conceived in its place.

We were the vehement and victims, the enemies of all mankind.
We did nothing to deserve to exist.
Let us join God in the death of meaning.