The man does not eat. The man takes skeleton skins. The un-god has unleashed the hollow howls. He has told the children to take the eyes of the woman. It is a perked famine. The turned and staled satin vision of manhood erects—now endowed with the ins and outs of statues. The others, kept and unkempt, cower in the holes of loose boulders, skinned rain. He has told the children to take the eyes of the man.
Earlier, the heirs were strides. The monked politicians robed themselves in naked whores and gawked: the hallowed snakes began to tease and bless the drought. It is the rise of the madness, of the priest laden healer, that begins to turn the stomachs of unborn sinners. The women, already, are round and blushed in darkened cheeks and shame.
The priests begin to whip and sex the unfastened rogue of females. The tied bleed and unbleed and turn the un-god. The chanted march into graves above the earth and the revelations are here: it is the blood in the sea that is red. It is the blood in the rain that is here. It is no longer an un-god man: he is king.
The children take the eyed. It is the same pastured stare of the un-god. The red skinned blood is sanctified. It is an owned pagan rite. He is unveiled and taken in light. The woman will bury her fingers into herself and twist into the acts of mutilation. His blood is mine to drink, she will say. He is not the un-god, she will say. The others, here, pray to false idols.
He has unleashed a feeble ghost. It is an ungone truth. It is the sordid chants of the monks. And they are whores. The children here are now sordid orphans—diseased and dirted into the mourned lifed. They are base in stares and do not rein. They drink the un-god blood and are cursed.