La Mort Boheme
(Walter Cronkite, George Bush, and Clint Eastwood walk into a ritual…)


A tinted caravan
is coiled under Onyx skies

It weaves the wilds,
winding deep within the Forest’s bowels

Where famous faces,
every one of which you recognize

Are all encircled,
every one adorned in scarlet cowl

And in the center of the circle
sits a sacrifice
With 30 robed and hooded figures
stood before a massive owl

It’s face is caked in moss,
the torches light;
the flush of life
is rushed into its carven eyes,
as horns exude a wounded howl

And, soon,
there grows among the wealthy crowd
a thunderous swell

The feral mouths of power,
blackened words
on blighted dirt

They heave communal dirge
unbodied more than tongue could tell

A kiss of Saturns gas;
in Satyr flames,
the Grotto bursts


And, soon,
the CEO’s
will swirl immoral sarabands

And, soon,
The Oldest Guard
will bloom a grove of bacchanal

And, soon,
the truth of power
stares up from the bearers’ hands

And I would see too much
to ever feel like I came back at all

I’d see too much
to not return there in my every dream.

I’d see too much
to not see cultists on the silver screen

To feel like i’d returned
the same man i’d departed as,
who didn’t see the words of binding
spelled out in the autographs


I can’t explain to those
that couldn’t grasp the half of it

That didn’t SMELL that sacrifice
That didn’t HEAR the baphomet

You’ll never speak the words
If you can’t comprehend their alphabet

To hear the Ataraxia
that calls to all the rhapsodists

You don’t know the exodus
of all the earthly morals

The Triumvirate Trismegistus
would purge before the start

The invocation
ALWAYS was intended as a choral
And they carve you all but hollow
so its words might fill your heart

What rites they have,
to immolate and purge their worldly cares

So they are never bound by sympathy
To see or hear our pain

they can edit out
the screams of children
piercing through the air

They can bound it,
black,
in Muslin wrap,
and wash it all in flame

So, Cronkite, Bush, and Eastwood
walk into a ring of runes

While Longfellow, and Holmes
are lying, buried, in Mount Auburn

they cry aloud “Cremation!”
neath a silver sylvan moon
and set their effigy ablaze
that it may satisfy their sovereign


An offering to providence
Presented in a coffin

By those who rose to prominence
through War and Entertainment

The Gala glow of Pageantry
that hides a private auction

That we don’t need attend
because we’re there in form of payment

Maybe that’s their whole arrangement,
made to keep the dream alive,

Perpetuate enslavement,
and still find a way to sleep at night

Now we know the measures that they’ll take,
and WHAT THEY DEIFY

Never break the chain,
and don’t let Cheney near the Hematite


Somewhere beneath the gaping onyx sky

Where a beast was brought to raucous life
that never truly dies

An Owl is standing vigil
at an altar in a grove

And the hoods
all cover faces
that you know.