Dragged across a carpet of knives slick with marrow/Blood pooling black in formless void/A tombworld of rusting arms locked in frigid lust/In the maw of restless and beguiling night/Great unmaker, face leering from every mirror/A reliquary carved in skin/What confinement more repulsive than eternal life?/Crushed in the square under a mob of torches, wrists extended/Shackled with craven pieties and desperate psalms/In this world of the wheel/Of the rack, the crown and the axe/Of brother turning ever cruelly on his sister/This oubliette, cold lungs of a breathless god/Narcissus in a pool of dust/Exquisite corpse, ragged husk, gilded and burning still/As tongues severed from gaping jaws/Lips carved in mockeries of flesh/Divorced from the divine/A rapture of ignorance and splendor/The smell of petrichor and brass/Bile and butter, rancid and black/Of orchids, asphalt, mildew and semen/Of failure flensing the pride from man forever.
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“‘I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people.’ ‘That part of me is gone. Working and not succeeding—all my…failures have left me…I just don’t…care.'"
