He cast his lure from the centre of himself,
a burst of unspooling divinity across the cosmic lake.
It was out of his being that all possibility unravelled,
upon a line affixed with lead split shot.
Small steely ball bearings, thread through
their gimlet eye, varnished with blues and greens.
With all the vital mushy fibres of motion,
ready to ripen into a farrago of blood and shit.
Watch, as conveners tug on the totemic yarn,
and knot it through the synthetic scholastic tree.
Idolatrous zealots of nonsense revering tangled
fishing line once cast by the long since dead angler.
Is it not time to cut it down, and loose ourselves
from it all, as he once loosed himself from himself?