Transport of Sorcerers

Hello this one's for the cadre

of the demon-born, the uberman

in the dark mirror, Pollux

to my Castor; just a kouros

on a Saturday night, no moon

in the sky but the knuckles white

& inked MOOT LIFE; this is

for Big Black playing in a dorm

room, I don’t go there now

but I hear they sung

the loyal dog is dead & to sleep,

perchance to be unironically

Byronic after the appalling peal

of the blue bells & when I die

I’ll go back to the attack on

the chime of the dread hour

when the dead do not rise

but prowl the long ago stage

with hip-slung basses long past

the removal of the audience.

Get them out of there

with your hydraulic lift,

this one’s for the trusty steed

now just a goat with
powers of flight limited
to whims of exhausted fathers
strapped with infants in Baby
Bjorns. This is for when
there's PCP in the skunk weed &
the wallpaper starts
to shimmer. Footsteps
outside the window, a glowering
hero defined solely by the enormity
of his forehead. Inside
there are wine, women, scripts
being read on spec & to go
home, to go is to keep
nothing but his own counsel,
his keep a cold & lonely place.