The Master’s Master
The black star never stops
imploding and in so and so
wrecks the universe over
and over as if the mint or olive
Faber-Castell was not poison-leaded
November, when each and
every Corporation whose ISIL
death star must be burned and bombed
in tap pit
Oh, how way leads on
to way: do you remember the slit
in your thumb, I made?
The razor, dear, bleeds faster and faster.
The Master asks the Master’s Master.
There is a gulf
of earth yet unexplored. The crickets break
their throats in calling. Give me malls.
Give me falling. Call me in
Prepare the Cross for boarding.