The first resurrection is always the hardest
The charioteer runs behind the chariot
Riddles posed to us cannot be answered, the best –
…solutions are not black or white, but morals of a harlot
The wheel spins like a knife let twirling: point on glass
Clouds part, perplexity and paradox dance Dervish style
I look at the shattered mirror: this too shall pass
The hour and minute hands have fallen off the sun-dial
Is there a Sybil to hear my query, is she suitably primed?
Shall I make love to her spilling my seed, bring out the truth?
Will her words orgasmically reveal what convergence has timed:
To open the gates wide enough to view the fortune teller’s booth?
My mouth tastes of phosphorus, my soul aches of blood
I seek a path long overgrown by Saturn’s harvest
Beyond the geometry of space, I see pure opium rush, my world is mad
What cries on the Eastern Wind? The Kandahar dead know no rest.

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Angie's Diary