How I met the author of the fundaments

I endorsed an enormous error—
there was a mystic on my doorstep.
I showed him the light
which lie broken in my den.
He said, “I will fix it,”
and barged in drunk—
he advertized his team
but never his conviction.
“I am homeless,” he said.
Replied I, “Aren’t we all.”
He authored the fundaments,
he said. “Forsake,” I pled
kneeling by his nethers:
the stench of aristocracy
never met this man—
he was a cultist in demand
when all the seriousness
of millenialism dried in:
“I will raze Gomorrah,”
he said—then said I,
“I will raise the dead.”
Tequila—a few beads
on the hedonic calculus,
a peculiar mathematic—
“who goes first,” I said.
“Whoever gives the head.”

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~ by Jeremy on July 3, 2013.

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