To Love Azathoth

Oh you fool, you pretty thing,

Your lips to the foot of a blind man

A fool himself, but enthroned

Upon his tower of imperfection

Yet still you climbed

 

The breath of his music

Inaudible frequencies

Fiery wind, magnetism,

His light radiant, empty

The sun of your desire

And you, Mercury,

Learned nothing from Icarus

 

You watch the motions of his hands

Platonic solids cast like dice

Little bursts of hydrogen in the dark

And you hunt their shards

Plucking jewels from the tar of night

To crown his babbling head

With laurels of geometry

 

Sometimes

You dream of stealing his flute

And breaking the damned thing

Over your knee

And pressing your hands to his face

Spreading apart his pursed lips

And shaping his breath

Into notes of truth

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