At the surface right above the focus of the blast –
the epicenter of the heart – the angel and the beast
do not, precisely, co-exist: they mix and match
and coalesce and fix their gazes here and there
and everywhere: become each other and/or hybridize:
categorize them if you dare – they'll shatter into anywhere.
We want, we think, to abdicate the throne of blood
and grief: and give it to that hungry thief who thrills at
killing and at lusting over what he's killed: oh, let that
part of Soul be spilled! – like water on the wicked witch,
let evil melt and twitch to its last gasp: and let what
lasts switch to the open heart – be felt! Until we see
the skulking thief is us, and all his power-broking violent
sadistic fuss is at the core, no less or more than
breezy light. This ain't no easy fight. The beast is not
some atavistic relic: he's daily fed and wed to the angelic.