Carnival Song

No patterns, no
faulty
iterations;
no flattery,
no conflagrations.

No thought, no time, no space absurd
to deify
(or demon-ize)
a thing so lit'ral
as the written word.

Speak, as 'twere with your undying breath.
Speak of crimes seen aloft on your perch--

And burn, and spin
(turn, turn)--
this is not your time;

this is your death.
Tempt my gaze,
and meet mine eyes' wrath
with buck-tooth,
chin,
bones of glass:

speak your piece,
breathe your last.