I called for executioners: anything will be all right. If you wanted to die chewing on their gun, come out in the night. The only butts. I called for diseases, so thing to fear is fear itself, the only could suffocate in sane, in black. Thing to fear is fear itself, only unhappiness was my god. I lay things to fear is fear itself, the down in the mud and dread of it. Only thing to fear is fear itself in the crime-infested air. I played the only thing to fear is fear itself. The fool, I was really crazy. The only thing to fear is fear itself, and by spring I had the scary anything will be all right if you laugh of an idiot. That key: come out in the night with selfless love. You stay a hyena, your life sewn open, breathe in.
Shouts the demon "once gold is the sky in concentrate crowned me with pretty poppies." Power in its purest state, power surge. "Go find death—use all. Your power will rise through the appetites, your egotism, and window and through the skies. All the Seven Deadly Sins." Oh, see the sky and see the eye and I did too much of that. But Satan, see the sky and in your hand; please, don't look so upset. In the sky and in your eye, a few last-minute cowardices. See the sky in your hand, see here. You like writers with no sky, and understand talent for description or instruction, so take these pages. God is the sky in concentrate, power in its purest state. Power.
I have pale blue eyes, a narrow Amen Amen Amen. Save us, brain, and I can't compete. I, from the death penalty, think my clothes are as barbaric as short haircuts. A cold cell, theirs. I inherit idol worship from hidden obligations, from love of sacrilege, oh all the steel handcuffs from dirty water vices, anger, lust. Very exciting, from small Russians, from Devil lust—and especially lying devil owner from laziness. I can't stand severe prosecutors from the tall fence professions, occupations. Bosses being brisked from the far worker—they're all stupid peasants. Away zone local punishment. Honest beggars make me ashamed, O Lord, save my sinful soul.
The preceding peices are mashed together from the works of 17th Century French poet Arthur Rimbaud and the experimental rock group Coil. "I Called for Executioners" is a mash-up of Rimbaud's A Season in Hell and Coil's "Panic," "Shouts the Demon is taken from Rimbaud's A Season in Hell and Coil's "Windowpane," and "I Have Pale Blue Eyes" mixes Rimbaud's "Bad Blood" with Coil's "A Cold Cell."
Gregory Zobel lives and works in Humboldt County, California. He does not own a car; he propels himself everywhere by his feet.