On the Saturnian Kakocracy of the World

 

O Saturn, the God of Sordid Love,

in whom and whose cold the Sun

is flipped, devoured, extinguished,

you cannot help it—you must feed

 

and feast to bring your not-to-be—

and you labor to dig the abyss deep

and deeper still—into eyeless voids

that no longer knows what’s good

 

and what is not—the amoral moralist

outside the law of love, you, the hoarder

of the skulls and bones and all dead souls,

 

those oxymorons of the hollowed selves,

you are the chosen Deity, the chosen Ghost

of the powers that be, who spell souls as slaves