‘Everything in it which is not hideous is incomprehensible,
everything one understands is putrid’
Oblige me if you will, a story
from the church of decadent veil.
Mephistopheles has no standing
in this city, yet he sits, watches.
When beauty is in art, the ivory
and rose leaves are too indulged.
On my knees I begin, palms to
heaven, mind to the flowers of death.
‘You were my art, my comprehension,
you have taken me as He took you.’
The profligate blade runs deep through
constancy, the spirit and the saviour.
He procures extra-ordinary sensation,
through dissolute smoke, a ‘defiled vessel’.
Standing upright, heels rooted in an
inch of defecation, transgressed morality.
Holding the light he does not give or
bear, ‘Dorian your soul, sick with yearning.’
Blood-letting from a debauched excess
of raped emotions, a new mode of art!
Depraved fictional love, where is your art,
I shan’t dignify beauty in a conceited aesthete.
Death in my carceral picture, alter no more;
oh, unfortunate accident! ‘I am here, I am here!’