Gatherer Of The Pure

He's a man of the world, but his is a small world
Being a world whirled and whipped inside a filth caked skull
All a dalliance in delusion, all dreamed down in narcotic seclusion
He peeps all askance through all and sundry
Three dimension unreality his fourth dimension play-day
All eternity a rainy Sunday
He, a builder of worlds in dreams
He, a destroyer of worlds in dreams.

Feculent plots / hatch / fester / fry.
Subsistence burnt black, effulguent brain pan besmirched
Labours of love ladled into ravenous toilet bowl of life
All lost souls to feat upon fresh hot meal of voided bowel
He, a leacher of colour. He, a void in sanity
A poisoner of the well, instiller of winter's gray flavour
A spasmed spatter of the obvious, a-soiling gleaming uncertainty.

On a lonely wander through twisting streets of Yonder
His one good eye spying, prying, a shadow play for yesterdays
All tomorrows, all yesterdays today
Carrion Crow, pinch-faced proprietor of this sorry sideshow
Roll up, roll up! Crack cranks his codeine calliope
All is vibrant colour without his vermined bone box
All within, bleak nothing - all without to pay homage, at his insistence
Cosmic keys broken in twisting locks of lost infinities
His worlds all a-fire now, a Lucifer turning in listless circles
Before landing in the dry hay of thoughts half-remembered.

Evensong their last song
Pray for the prey! Sing for your supper!
Funeral pyres for one and all today
As hand of God to give
As hand of God to take away.