But this is not a poem
It's only a confession
A series of words
That led up to them ..

The turn I move,
When I move my hand
It's magnetic
In waves of the grooves
Of the atoms floes
And movement (*knows)
As I transfer my vibe
INTO the soul.

The wretched ones
Don't doubt my good.
They're awful opposed.
Awfully opposed
To the magnet.

The magnetom lens
And holy grail
The deathray
Psionic guns
Sound-guns and mace
Frequencies
Flamethrower kits
The fistful of steel
The steel I wear
And the necklace of Nordic metal.
Thor all alone,
As the electric throne
Is handed to me,
You won't forget the remote control.