knick knack cadillac, i swear i'm not the one

we're told that      
a great vagician never reveals        
their psychosis        
but        
how awkward a moment        
for thee        
to find it's 8am on the dot,        
another thursday morning,        
harrowing and frozen        
while you're laying upon limbs, stretched and taut        
positioned with poise       
in proper snow angel format        
sprawling the bed        
from end to end        
with an open bottle of budweiser in each hand, when you spot an ole pal,        
tis        
jesus holyrollin'        
christ-mas-cookie (without any milk)        
descending from the decoratively textured wrinkles of your ceiling tiles...        
       
just to whisper in your ear,        
the ancient wisdom        
of light-working lemurians,        
transcending waves of        
a dismantled utopia,        
when you realize...        
       
blazing jet fuel may not reach the ideal melting point of such        
cascading material,        
but        
carole fuckin baskins        
 
the alchemist        
 
of our 9/11 charade        
surely        
 can        
  melt        
   steel        
     beams,        
so long as they're
saturated
fully enveloped        
in the blood of epsteins suicide,   
henceforth we're bound    
witnessing        
a spellcaster's binding of humanity;        
the collective fate in exchange,    
and     
agenda-twenty-one taught    
       
go gold        
   
or go home        
   
but, alas
we've already come        
alongside an armada prepared to storm  
area-fifty-one