"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Seed of the Pomegranate

Moogles dine on Terra
With their spears and
Morning stars tearing against her caves
In war to find a girl
Of that very same name
First,
Before the world
Of Kefka, Kafka or one more horrid
Can claim her a denizen
Only to be spoiled
And embroiled
In their unconscionably
Relaid
Excuse for natural birth.

The Magicite is skin
Not protecting her, but them
From her radiance,
A radioactivity to insidious men.

The Magicite is flesh
A prism to also mesh
All while dividing
The aggregate seeds of godliness to seem worthless
In alternate directions.

All different hues
For miscreants
To misunderstand
Compromising,
Diffusing their lust
In the finality
Of crystalline protection.

The meshing inside of beauty
With so few seeds
One should man-it
As a Helmsman to the wheel
Or even a tiny Mog
On the heel of perspicuity
In his dying last
His logged journal in a resurgent blast
A race web-logged for “what could”
Have been that he died
For what was good.

She is the key that which Locke
Saves his Wing Edge
To carve deep
From the back-row inflicting
The same revenge
As would be wedged between
The eyes of all who found her preemptively
If he had the Genji-glove
And the Offering
Equipped at once
Just for them…
All at once,
Eight strikes at effrontery.

Towards the Flesh of the Pomegranate
A virulent fruit,
Their attack rivals his wont.

-Monday, February 23, 2009

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