TO THE MOST HOLY INQUISITION
Plato knew
the lust,
this sexless demon wisdom,
and turned
to the instruction of tyrants
in his old age.
Show me
the instruments of torture,
the instruments of instruction.
Chastise me
in my heresy, by fire.
I will confess the phallus
as cold, iron
or stone;
I will say I saw semen,
little homunculi
dancing in a knowing cloud
above an orgy
of the lurching dead;
I will lead you to the bedpost
where I hang my gonads at night:
I will confess
if you wish,
and burn.
My phantasm
is your necessity.
Lash me to your post,
so like the asherahs
of the Hebrew Goddess,
pile on the faggots,
my books, ripped up
and soaked in oil,
strike steel to flint,
set a spark to my kindling:
Build a thousand bonfires,
roast a thousand thousand
alchemists, cathari, illuminati:
Murder by fire witches
until all the stars fall from the sky:
You can not murder the idea.
I will be cloistered into logic by saints.
You have your smoky mirror.
I have the orbits
of obsession,
a Copernicus beyond the compass
of any Kepler ,
my satire of perfection, black mass
trumps
the eucharist,
that little picnic, set in stone.
I am the carpenter
who installs
the doors of perception
in your high gothic charnel houses.
I am the luciferian mite, the mote
in God, your Father's eye.
My sabbat
redeems
a burning sabbath.
