Stories [poetry]

I am told of a home
where the courtier and the heretic are hostage to the devil

where the good life is the joy of hiking black holes
a long way down
and a long way gone

where there is plenty of oil on the brain
in a far country
but a sudden country when it comes looking for you
on agate hill

where the executioner always chops twice saints behaving badly
and the devil in the white city has a heart-shaped box at the castle in the forest

where the singularity is near and never stops dancing with the little drummer girl

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