I recall your words
as you spoke to me once
of bulls horns,
and it was laughable,
you think too much of yourself
so you degrade everything you touch.
Do you recall the story of Midas
and his golden touch?
Well your lust it turns everything to rust,
you erode and decay everything around you.
I have never been a saint,
and purity I find is bland,
but there is no low of which
you would not sink below,
spitting out your Crowleyian
philosophy you fathom yourself
enlightened, and there was a time
when once I bought that line,
but it was never truly you speaking was it?
Only your drug induced hallucinations
ironically, all too fittingly I saw
the source of your wisdom was born
out of death and decay,
fungi infestation feeding off
the sorrows of others,
toxins which mask themselves
as benign, just waiting.
You are a spoiled child
perhaps too long indulged
but it is up to someone else now
to endure your self-serving perversion.