The Ages, Part XV

In Sodom Lot, discouraged sought
through cumbrous changing tides
of sentiments some holy
mainstay with which his
aching soul would feel
complete, and lo he found
again Yaweh—though exhausted
and infected with the smoke and
ardour of the pagan’s magic, their
barbaric rites like ritual sacrifice and
anal intercourse, he strove inside
the mind’s war to stave off
his inevitable inculpation,
exchanging dry clues gleaned
by that city’s sacred arts into
the world of angels for
wet miracles of faith in Christ,
the one appearing, and in visions
bleak and doomy arrested all that
with one eye extra to perceive Him saw—
wonderful counsellor, King and
true prophet—and their best in
those days, sounding the
apparatus of earth’s open throat
in search for truth and other occult
commands—these lords of Amaltheia
hid their hands for fear of Lot’s God
seeing their carmine colour—
they in pride and wile would
marry men to men and boast of
their depravity, now like downward-
flowing slag to black water they
careen headlong into loneliness’s
deepening abyss, notwithstanding
they are changeless in insurgent malice,
the error they are entitled to, and in
time they will receive also hellfire—
the promised wedding of one’s
skin to rock, which permanent fixes
a man to that local mass of
extradimensional energy called
ego. They like corbeil bloom no more,
grow no more, sun no more because are
only images of something formerly existing;
they persist enough to interpret their
punishment, that it is just,
and otherwise are ghost men,
stumbling through pig latin prayers of
angst and woe—“Lot’s God prevails,
Lot’s God delivered, Lot’s God addresses
us—we cannot hear nor see nor heal.”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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