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    “Politics of Gnosticism”

Gray domain, sad cyclical thirst for blood.
No gliding protocol in a maroon rain,
no hand of Fatima lights our haggard run;
but i will not admit that i’m afraid.
In this snaking baobab domain, command
wills its buzz through pliant skin and iron
and pours down Taproban to light a cairn,
cairn or monition told. This star is blind
on ruin thrown, and occult on fragrant blood
it calls forth from our flag a plastic doom.
Words among fathoms cold find tragic numb
in bloat-thrusting vault no click, its only food
annihilation and subfusc fuzzy thralldom.