© 2019 by NEW OPERA NYC

Don't cross the line of fire.

An iron bird is looming.

A devil finds his beard

Buried under his hoof and wags it.

Violets groan

Under the boot.

In its puddly grave

A stick is mute. 

I quietly steal

Along the pathway,

Along a narrow trail.

Under arm, a heifer,

A sign of mystery,

Black heifer in a silk saddle.

I hide a treasure.

I marvel at it,

Secretly.

Silently, a slender needle

Punctures my neck.

There is an ancient motto,
Of all supreme and chubby

Bastards and Bohemians: 

LOVE, MYSTERY. DEATH.

We finally reigned over

The bony claws of dementia

And crafted the new gospel:

HARVEST. KULTUR. L.O.L.