Against Self-Preservation

It must be your Horus, these twelve stations
studding the gilt megaground. Yourself 
the scalar wobble, boy Mystery. What to do 
with you on whom muscled breath teaches fur.

Doing, you reharmonize. Prompted, you shed
exponents. Miles later, gabled arithmetic
undermines your mother's beloved foothold.
And she fundamentally crocodilian, extra-limbed.

Not for nothing the Via Dolorosa belltowered
into your lover's first expression of contempt.
This proven by the wolfbutter demon as its
googolplex of alephs become. The rest of the poem
toychesting in. But would it would it would it.

To the word though: quit, leech. From the null
lake: you will keep children. Whereupon: 
account your zeroes in the name of the Difficult 
and the Lucid and the Axiomatic. Within bats', 
terriers' already? an answerable deicide.
longofono_4.html