The Griding Sword with Discontinuous Wound

No, Caesar, you were born with the blades in you Auriga Soranus whispers your name The face that once was marble now is flesh The horn of the goat seized in the serpent’s mouth Blood blossoms on the sacrificial stone The face of Taurus gleams with seven rays Five mirrors illuminate the caverned man The grain spills from the belly of the bull The places where the goats are torn apart In vitriol to find the secret stone Earth's core hot like the entrails of a beast The terracotta face of victory The labyrinth of the continuum An outcast on the mountains of the heart The inward turn becomes the inward spiral A holy hen upon the nest of night Do we not feel the breath of empty space? This ubiquitous virtual sense of loss The yawning gulf of past and future time The silent outward turn of emptiness We are the relics of our ruined past The rotting of the base material The yliaster sphere turned porphyry The everlasting pitiful “too late” Let us not speak of what we cannot have Two thousand years force-fed the flesh of Christ The sunset was mistaken for the dawn They drank the wine and now we drink the blood The solar crown becomes the crown of thorns Process as catching fire between extremes Anointed with the ash of fired gods The law revealed within the thought of death The king submerged within the ravaged mare Now supplicant before the empty throne The gray and sullen stubbornness of fact The constant fabrication of new lies In nature there is neither line nor color This cosmic order, everlasting fire The incommensurable magnitudes The deepening red of that unconquered sun Eternity is torn apart in time The profanation of the mysteries The highest values devalue themselves Osiris-Antinous is born again To you the conquerors and the pale saints Music consumed in the very act of birth The griding sword with discontinuous wound The hawk is swallowed by the snake it’s caught