Vanity Fair
“Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.”
Christopher Marlowe
On the first day, the heavens opened,
and I saw Christ hanging on His Throne of Blood.
An eyeless vulture nailed to the Cross.
I tried to cut off my right hand –
awaiting an angel –
because the redemption of Creation required it.
I spoke with all things –
even inanimate matter –
and was invaded by it, cell by cell.
I saved the damned and Satan –
at terrible price.
I stayed in Hell for all Mankind.
On the second day, I deleted my own being,
so Elijah could come occupy my brain.
I took my shoes off on hallowed ground.
I wrecked my car,
went to hospital,
and attempted suicide more than once.
On the third day, when I was Adam Kadmon,
I severed my head from my body,
so the heavens would not be corrupted by impurity.
I was the number eleven: perfect mirror,
Sword of God, the Beast in the Apocalypse.
Messiah. I was I.