existential poem #29 - self-worship/self-hatred

astrologers proclaim the year of the child-rapist
and newborn baby orifices await ravaging;
such are the ways,
   and all this
   in the honor of the sacred ---
   for the holy cause
   --- the holy, holy cause ---
   of self-enlightenment;
 
dung takes shape
in the hands of the sculptor
and rotten wood
build the hut of the hermit;
ugliness comes in pairs, in twins,
to a self-obsessed mother
and a volatile father, crown-prince of abuse:
all people are given disgusting and offensive hands
in a game of cards that will absolutely rape the world ---
but I, I swim splendidly
in the beauties and riches of life,
like a happy, happy, happy clown-fish.

also,
I beat myself with iron rods of irony
and walk about freely, Maldoror-like
through the sarcasm-chasm
this world really is (to me).

the awakening
    of the spirit ---
    stuck
in the static between oceans
in the midst
of the nothingness
bordering the thresholds
of all vertiginious abysses
beyond the waters
over the edge --
demands sacrifice;
    boundary-shattering;
    perversive indulgement
    and everything else
    I have consciously and unconsciously left out
    in this text
    due to the harrowing fear
    of myself
    and my own sullen moral-ethic, literary,
    and self-destructive capabilities.