A curse on your delicate soul
 
A curse on your delicate soul
     dear pastor!
What lies you cast at us like
    thunderbolts.  No angry god, thou, oh Pretender!
Sounds of alarms, screamed like 
     murders through your teeth.
Pastor of golden greed.
Pastor of the living dead.
Pastor of livid armies upon the trampled land.
Denouncer of none but the clear of thought,
    and of courage to think it true.
Heed all of us when the dead seize the earth
    for it will send you and your brothers and sisters to shame.
Red burst your eyes, tears not,
    rivers of blood, and queer fakery true!
Masters of book and bible and man and sky and earth
    and the stars beyond despise your presence upon their throne.
Revel in your own departures, villains,
        for this be the true word of God.


 
INCANTATION
 
In Falen's glowing hand
there was nothing
            
neither sweat nor spell
 
neither creation nor failure
 
A surprising thing, he thought
A thing such as this
happens only once in a 
Sorcerer's lifetime
never again to be repeated.
 
He stared at his fingers, dazzling
glowing with eerie, twinkling
 
nothingness.
 
Failure pronounced with an
accented somethingness
but nothingness, still, had
he to behold
 
He sighed, strangely
entranced, and 
softly slipped
away into the night
 
becoming nothing.