Hypergod Poem by Stefan Markovski

Parish of the metawisdom and my step into
an empty temple, which takes the fire out of the desires
full of air to burn the candles that carry a blessing
Through a redhot smile, my cheeks touch my anger
from which the gods jitter
street actors play military spectacles
and conquest of the city
the bazaar becomes a periphery
the walls are the core
cannons hanging in a necklace send volley to the view
bestowing food of fission powder
The Great Revolution is just about to hit
with pythonic vigor
the very foundation of the new hyperworld, where
the bodies are more, less
where the bodies are more or less new bullets with which life
intends to express the victory

the war is not the end...
I repeat: the war is not the end goal of the unaccountable power
war is merely a benevolent instrument of
the gods that must be somewhere nearby
even as plastic souvenirs
stolen from birds, promised for sanguine men
in search for warm music blown by a gentle wind
whitewashed by harmonicas with color that will crack
even when it's time to be alone...