Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death

The Iron Man Came To The Top Of The Cliff. How Far Had He Walked? Nobody Knows. Where Did He Come From? Nobody Knows. How Was He Made? Nobody Knows. Taller Than A House The Iron Man Stood At The Top Of The Cliff, At The Very Brink, In The Darkness.

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.