just call me the good doctor AKA jack the ripper. i'll call you pinochio, & every time you tell a lie, your nose gets shorter. scalpels are for scalps; scissors for fingers. knives for wives, even. never bring a knife to a shuriken fight, thats what i always say. believe you me: the saints were canonized with actual cannons. a 21 gun salute propelled the 21 cardinal-bishops into a freshly dug mass grave. bang bang! the whys & wherefores? progress, or should i say, regress. well, should i? should i usher in the end times? the soothsayers will remind you where you are. this is my diocese, my jurisdiction. for fucks sake! i cause the black blade to plunge, an obsidian bird's beak. 21 hearts freed, 21 shaman vessels sent rolling down the stone steps. the gilt ziggurat runs red. relax. i'm an arch-nemesis by day. by night, an architect. the chiseled channels of this colossal altar catch the blood. my gargoyles, my bas-relief chimeras drink the rivulets. drink up, kids! bathe & baste what sleeps beneath. fuck babylonian engineering. this mellifluous fountain trumps the hanging gardens. my hanging gardens is a lynching gardens. its so quiet before a storm. can you hear a pin drop? a lynchpin? the one i pull. the one that holds all things together. well, should i?