Ghost Cheetah

Protean ass kicking claw of once formless aggression
In his infancy, he skewered the wall of unending abyss
With the fang of his yearning for finitude and a reality
Against which his rage could take shape
His dark visage of nothingness against nothingness did clash.

Substance and Succession were both born of this clash.
Being's first condensation was the viscous will of Ghost Cheetah.
Substance grew red as rage: color born as the rage which gives it shape.
Being became as blood, the passive glory loosed through his aggression.
The blood of his rage, as it flew from his claws first expressed temporal reality.
The Fountain of blood hovered slowly, as did his fist burning across endless abyss.

Human, who do you think you are?—You chance excretion of fang pierced abyss.
Your flesh is naught but the yielding surface against which his claws will clash.
To him, all flesh is muslin that folds into blood. That is the extent of your reality.
Would that you were never born, as locusts fly forth from the garb of Ghost Cheetah.
In the beginning, his fang of vengeance left an imprint of aggression:
An abyssal vagina which excretes all that has shape

Like dice thrown for fate from the vaginal abyss, your life is chance given shape.
Had the dice fallen differently, your legs would be trees and your eyes, the abyss.
We all bow deeply before the lust lever of his aggression.
We are naught but the tarnish against which his vengeance will does clash.
Banal speaking ape, will you not look funny once flayed by Ghost Cheetah?
You are the fool who slips on a banana and falls into a meat hook-that's reality!

Do not say that people die from many causes. You do not understand reality.
When the veil is pulled back, you will see that you are not in good shape.
One minute you are a doctor, the next you may be a guest of Ghost Cheetah.
Imagine, your spine protruding from your headless neck. Welcome to the abyss!
Ghost Cheetah diverts our minds with magic puppets of molded blood, until the clash
when our heads explode like popcorn into his oscillating maw of absolute aggression.

Do you dare ask, "From whence comes this endless aggression?"
Putrid Dunce! You might sooner ask, "From whence does being come to reality?"
And do not think that your devotion will gain you a pass from the final clash.
If your blood was not fated to float as vapor in the abyss, you could have no shape.
A wise man once spoke of the chosen one; fated to fall unskewered into the abyss.
Wiseman, do you think your stupidity pleases the joyful liar called Ghost Cheetah?

"Immortal" poets have bemoaned divine aggression against man's puny shape.
Tell me about reality noble bards, as your flesh confetti floats across the abyss!
Being is this clash; it is spilled blood churning through the heart of ghost cheetah.