The frizzy white hair is a wig-out,
though you're one
of the best mind-rapists ever,
& the wind does not whistle
through more vacuous craniums
drying the blood lore of sages
with a newspaper wad wiping your anus.
I'm wont to believe the sleep
of ignorance purged us
faster than cancer infiltrating
our high-rent graveyard cities,
where your serpents encroach
the tongue of a final foetus
a mother does not read Shakespeare to.
Who is this savior born
of immaculate in vitro conceptions,
pricked by your abortionist's needle
into the common coma
of another afterlife?