In which image of you is it must I follow?
Is it the Male's Wicked Guilty,
Wherein the snakes and worms and vermin pour out like easy water
As fast as ravens and vultures flock to the dead?
I am no scavenger, restless with the non-existent drive
To act in accordance with those absurd birds-
And after you.
Master, the great big thing,
I know I must follow you;
I have known it since the day I had self-realized as a toddler,
My boredom loud in my mother's empty kitchen,
Demonizing the houseflies
And waiting by the jail cell-like gated window for sunrise,
The blue one.
Again, great big thing,
In which image of you is it I must materialize?
O great one, o great sky father,
Are you the Babylonian Whore,
Perching violently within the exosphere, like Zeus
Mounting the decrepitness of a thousand lying scarlet women,
Their yellow hair freshly dyed with ash and urine, upon this world's seven hills?
You strike me with lightning, with purple lighting
For heeding your sallow words improperly.
But how must I know which of your million images is it
That I must follow when your face is replicated, clad
By many a dead men
And their analogies,
And their metaphors,
And their proverbs,
And their alliterations,
And their echolalia?
They all have come before you,
And so each is not of your own creation.
Nevertheless, o great big thing, nevertheless,
You are what you are.
But tell me, in which image of you is it I must follow?
Are you the Destroyer, set to obliterate my life's annunciation?
O how you would strike an atom to not be mocked in such a way!
You are no primordial image,
And certainty no man-o'-mine.
Great big thing,
Are you the Incercerator?
The Dictator?
The False Prophet?
The No-Man?
Yes, yes-yes, yes!
Perhaps those are it!
I can see it clearly now, like an evading odor
On your monster self's spiked pelage.
You are the Super Beast, too,
And a broken child, a ghoul of your mother's nightmares, no?
I comprehend it, I comprehend it, I comprehend it.
Anger had always dripped down your brick-red lips, like forever icicles
Down your psyche's brimstone fortress,
Nasty and nasty and nasty.
O how I can easily catch sight of the Inferno
Through the layers of your eggshell teeth
And your parasitic, anus-like bloodworm mouth
That forces a follow!
Tell me, great big thing,
Whichever archetype will you choose to take today?
In which image of you is it I must follow,
Even in my own home of sturdy mercury and salt
Away from your sulphuric travesty?
Would you be angered if I decided not to listen anymore,
Or will you throw me in the bronze bull to scream
Along its raging pyro as Abednego had?
