Back alley Jesucoatl put a prayer on a lamp post and turned a phrase into fisticuffs for the sake of a sardonic religious experience.
Hour farther made art for heathens, hollow beef for fame, come kin do run, thighs wilt for fun, for mirth does come in sevens.
Seven sibils, seven fountains, seven samurai swatting scorpions – invoking old gods with new names as though antiques polished might shine differently – Santaria staples, saints sinfully reverted to former figures as in musical chairs, swap, Pop!
Goes the weasel easel actuating four-dimensional probiotic tonic, ticking time rhyme, ravenous for the requisite nutrients: blue 42, blue 42, hut hut, tut tut –
Uncommon Pharoah, fornicating out of incest, impure bloodline rock of ages, sage and myrrh tasting sweet on a sour palate, damnable deviations make for New World Order norms.
This is sanctuary stabilized by reverting to chaos form,
this is a storm just as you start to swim to shore –
nothing easy comes to those that prosper,
elements are all the same
will shine like
***This probably has a lot to do with me reading The Invisibles. Thanks, Grant Morrison.***