The Snake to the Magus

It's always a scorchy day on the great eve of whatever-the-heck it was or did seem was to be been
have gold.
Gold! like the drops of dew from the Moon on high be it blue or bone white, with a face that looks down on dawn or very small men by the millions walking her almost lonely and only illusionarily sullen surface
Gold that spurts in clear phallic sugar
only romantically coaxed
too tuglessly tickled and seduced by Her sex

I do say Sheila! You take me too tyrannically...
(but actually she's not really making a fuss, but ignoring him, looking in the mirror herself and powdering her chest, pulling tight that V-cut for just the right shape of cleavage-- good girl, my witchy warrioress)
She's all too swollen about the right places in
places in space and
Who would have figured with that smile and even
sometimes you know it's just there's an anyhow
and second thoughts
I don't know for myself if she does want it really or just likes that lost look in his eye

Burn the winged sun upon my head!
Oh Sheila, if it be in you to do so and at the end you
she did manage to disintegrate back into the aether though
and you know it was about time that
I mean about space that (and the infinite stars thereof)
she was at the end you
(she too must come to pass)
The day was darkening and the sun swallowed by the sea
(though he burns on and on ever unconsumed by the sea you see)
And nothing ever sad but thinking made it so sorry
that even in sorrow and death I'm in love not
with her but with Her and let
me do talk about that Horned one

It comes first in dark robes, the men in black
And red triangles
And blue triangles in temples
Until it seems best to prove:
"Most people never understand anything
They are like the soil of the earth
They form the basis of life but are themselves lifeless."
And there's a voice laughing in broken crackles in crackwhip dancing distortions over the intercom and a god to rise over landscapes of geometry grinning jauntily until Holy Terror sets in and
Comes slowly at first, the Horned silhouette stomping down a dark hallway in
thud... thud... thud...
Thud Thud Thud--
Crash! of crystal glittering glass shards spread by a wealth of good shenanigans across cosmic eternal night sky and smoke and a face of galaxies with smeared hollow eyes and a grin of death that spans unmeasured lightyears...

Still
You come home and Sheila is there to greet you in her favorite
red as imagined blood that
fills her lips and lips
parting to suggest parting,
"may I raise your Snake, but droop not it's head?"
That's just how she plays it: