The best kind of a Brechtian soul, foulmouthed, deep-dyed in sin and dirt
Cheap grace and costly grace, tossed out into vivacious space, each wanting to be confused for the other, like how sometimes lust flies the flag of love. Cheap grace and costly grace, vying for the taciturn affections of confused theologians serving an apprenticeship to belief and pining for a moment when it becomes cast into a final fact of faith freed from the confines of coherence.
Doubling as in Blake, the seeing doing doer who sees that it will be done without escaping the moment in which it is done, no longer wanting to be seduced by the time present-is-time-past lines that came after shantih shantih shantih.
The impatience for the new hour of stilled utterance where the poetry may shed its skin and well formed utterance, advanced as an argument-making meter, may appreciate into some form of quiddity on which the state may levy a value-added tax.
A gun running retired poet gone glassy eyed in the opiate den will do as a boon companion to the acolyte of precarious happiness who goes hoarse from singing its dead-eyed lamentations. The stairs no longer ascend to the treasury where grace sits without a price, which is not without a cost. It should not be lost on anyone that when the user is not a purchaser and is a product, these roughed out thoughts don’t boomerang back with alienated majesty.