Holy Narcist, Batman!
Behold the spirit narcissist,
who alone is consort to the unnameable,
and sings of Him ecstatically, incessant.
Beware: her assured salvation shall not suffice
for she is more than smug;
she is the prophetess,
and she shall descend from her
mind’s hill to the vale of the profane
and smite thee with her tablet
should thou believe the Word suspect
or distress her enlightenment simply.
How kin is she to those urban zealots,
the subterranean seers who vanquish the
darkness of our commute with booms
of providence down the shaft of
our spiritual slumber, sonically flogging us out
of preoccupations and power naps.
How kin is she to these pompous purveyors
of eschatological redemption — deus ex homine.
Such sanctimony. Such acrimony.
Such conceited, manipulative phoney testimony.
Witness how they tremble in the vastness of here.
Note how they cower before the nothing of after.
See how she unravels at utterance unholy?
Hear her charge of vanity and defiance —
heresy, perversion or godlessness!
In another age might she drag us off
to inquisition and incineration?
Alas, we shall breathe no more
of war and suffering, for
mere temporal inconvenience are they —
minute in the face of Her Infinite,
lest we disturb her delusion deep and
incite the fury of primal wound
no mythic hand can wholly quell.
Besides, poverty and injustice are trite, anyway —
and the uneternal is always nearly passé. Right?
Photograph by Jun Hua EaHire An Editor