Fugue in Kerosene Minor

I followed Ginsberg through the kaleidoscope maze of Moloch,

Blind and subtle madness drooling from corners of the mouth torn by cruel grinning in grandfather night,

No winning when the mind echoes with the sound of scratch marks on stained glass in sweaty synagogues and unshaven cathedrals,

Just like the skins of children hung out on obsidian coat hangers in the closets of joyless men,

Fiddling with kerosene highs and ketamine sighs in stained bedsheets night after night,

Pillaging the soul for blubber, meat and bones worth maybe 3 pennies,

And crying tears of cold blood when they found that 4 pennies brought them no joy,

So they tore from their bones the angelic clothes with dull blades and bore themselves innocent and shy to the night,

Underneath God’s blindfold sky stretched out so unholy liquid black,

The stars but pinpricks to the light behind it.

Thomas Mitchelhill

23rd March 2021

4:39pm