the art of premeditated and self-controlled eloquence

Le principe de leur religion, c’est l’homme, et le sommet de l’homme,
c’est la pensée. Leur religion est donc la religion de la pensée.
Henri-Frédéric Amiel, Journal Intime

obituaries are as promiscuous as always
though that’s just a fairly good opening line
meaningless until we catch the will-o’-the-wisp
so let’s start an elohim gedanken experiment

there’s a man who wears a wig with impunity
a sybarite on the side and a dreamer in concept
all three as one all three as each one and the one
who created them for no reason per se the naïf

worshipped by st. vitus’ dancers as the fierce
and sanguinary goddess the humanity itself
when struggling to cope with its own divinity
self-proclaimed so far gave him a sanbenito

and accused of usurpation (in the sight of god
there is no silent witness one could even say
tough priesthood as people tempt chastisement
rather than learn wisdom) but when he reached

the gate of an abandoned hope there was no one
there but few sleeping wailers leaning against a
tombstone of lengthy words that tend and water
a grave for those who doubt and suspect nothing

so stepping outside weary of the forsaken myth
he was finally ripe for the terror of happiness
and the thirst of poison quite ready to accept that
the peace of fact is not the peace of principle

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