We All Have Our Ends In The Band

The King’s ministry is a traveling star,
irradiate with warrior alien mail coats
Hidden histories, black verse and hymns

one knows better to throw
to the fire and roast.

And the only refrain is a laughing murmur,
and a yellow man clapping in traffic.

Subterranean dynasties,
thing against thing
the King devouring his foes

Stripped and heaving
by quivering candelabra,
pulsing in eldritch shadows.

Screams rife with the choral ring
of small mouths praising Carcosa,
a thing falls in slow tumble
toward an evil star.

Sated on the oasis
of a flaming gallows,
Cassilda dances on
jackpins, the Queen Jester peels shadow
from her eyes, following syphilitic
village kings who loose
their own progeny
toward His vanguards

hoping for strange miracles.

And the only refrain is a murmur,
and a yellow man directing traffic.

These each Carcosa’s orphaned lot,
roaming as blind lambs
misled by each his mage
These each these starry eyed
These cross legged grinning
yellow mages playing dice
with flaming genomes,

holding Hastur’s seal

making his young so mad,
feeding them to the shade.