His First Hour Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Suppose
simply suppose
a prophet of name
be of some portent of
fame, or shame, or confusion.
An apotheosis of flustering genius
not unlike any fiery towering witness
King in mind; and comely myrmidon's
confessional. With a losers lost, transfigured
destructible, magnitude. And men to this are a
least conscience mass; contrived within, a pedigree
of absolute death! What primal smirk; would you
look to work, you borne of hermaphrodites and
fly stool! Rapt, doubling, troubling, stains upon
the universe; consummate countenance of
flickering tongues, each individually undone
by living and breathing and doing nothing!
Boy-gods of the journeymen; most innermost
anemones diseased with invisible hosts from that
nowhere, which is somewhere else other than here!
Pushed out of that sepulcher after midnight's gambit.
Charted from the beginning; in the jest, of His First Hour!