The Hollow King Of Make Believe
The hollow king of make believe
Preaches slow burn proverbs
And existential puffery
To his hardwired flock,
Fleecing their shallow pockets
By sleight of bony hand,
His third eye heaven
A telescopic watchtower.
The black robed moth
With pooling mercury mouth,
Garments his lizard skin
As the flat lined saints
Come marching in,
A clustering ambush
Of coma addled buyers,
And the shag carpeted pews
Are an inferno of huddled friction.
The hollow king of make believe
Devours glitter gold souls,
Held hostage
By dint
Of blood rust hooks
Punching through jaws,
Both atrophied and awed.
The hollow king of make believe
Sells vacant ideologues
And barters hope
For currency,
In the stained glass carnival sanctuary
Of fantastical delirium.
When the mewling notes
Begin to sour and float
From Sister Agnes’s ramshackle organ,
The shyster ruffles through his Armani suit
For a swollen cigar,
Behind the satanic curtain.
God is not dead
But nor is the devil,
As the ugly sainthood of mammon
Stabs a worshipful eye
With wolverine smile
That sniffs out spoils
And levels worlds.
Salvation costs only a monthly donation.
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