One Ingrown Horn

That baleful germ watches my going rate.

Comes with blunted spear--chafed flesh

pulled through Nothing come to its tether.

One ingrown horn--gluey eyes sleepless as

any decor in a crooked House.

One wing up on a downturned one.

A roving cackle that stokes the throat of

its fire.

As if the pleasantries of a disfigured humor

abide their disease--know their place 

amongst what was, but is no more.

The precipice stilled all the more in dark

of its sky, what land there was to distance

closed...pushed outward the demon's 

face as it sped downward.

The All summed up in a word shy of its

Word.

O demon, self-contained thing...whose

slights bar thee by design.

By God's reluctance animus thee spend,

to rule out what good could come of thee.

As if by the taking you secure increase--

there's no rallying God by the taking...

nay by privated fang and claw core undone.

Your striving put you to what you are.

Hence question put to question bequeath

questions...birth a demon bereft of answers.

And so, it is you...that makes the face of

anything--just until it shall have of itself,

bear itself.

That bearing be Godly--your industry is one

of delight in the confusion prior to that

bearing--O demon!

Hence, you are cast out by what sets its

sights by divine right!

Konstantinos Mark

Reviews

[...]

. sheer genius ...
. every word, every line, and, every image ...