O desultory dilettante

define my damage

there’s a little god in my pocket

calculating the cost

I don’t believe half of what he says

about you, of the others

I think there is a breath of truth

hang ’em high, hang ’em low

little god believes impermanence

as above, so below

so what sort of shade

will you be wearing to life’s next

masquerade?

Pencil in the details, hon

we may have to make changes

to the schedule

deviation from the dance

eradicate the norm

the shelf upon which you

were placed is quite drab

it’s time you were oiled, cleaned

sight down for accuracy

and fired into someone

polish up that virtue, son

says the little god on my wing

let’s kill all of the unbelievers

and sway to the beat

In time, there is no time left to count

happens infinitely in an instant

victory or defeat

a modicum of sorrow meets each

once the game is won

these platitudes beseech us

to forage after dark, in

the abandoned days

twilit ways and unsavory eyes

little god says they record it all

and moon it over coffee

there’s a tragedy on your face

as if you’ve cut to the meaning

I do not wish to see you go

but I do so love the leaving

O my diabolique darling

let’s desecrate the devils

and set fire to the sun

can you imagine a fire that hot

or am I the only one?

The little god in my pocket

says I am his only son.

The tides are against

pitchfork prophecies

and the burden of this

dainty deity

weighs a fucking ton