Head clasped to the pavement,
Misanthropic intent intact,
The hum of the new roars past,
Daily, in droves of drones,
With phones a drear, tactile response
To the hive of common's 'n' commin's and goin's
Of days long hoped for and dreams of
Gods lost ages ago in the days
Where such things were known as
Daily rituals; all things must pass.
The dirty sunken musk of the metropolis,
Shall we be drawn inexorably into;
The mother's web of oneness to a womb
Of smog, smut and smite,
'Tis God's will; and why not!
The chains and knots that bind me are but
Momentary incisions given the correct
Sepulchre; our fathers would steal away
The knives from our throats again
For fear of divinity.
The hole in the whole is the bothered burden
Of the contempt of the soil that lies
Beneath the soul. The context, truth and possibility
Lie above the surface, becoming more
And more at each breath, each stretch beyond
In the eye, I will awake.
Seeping the swept possibilities from each pore,
I pour more or less the broom that eats
The mass and the mess of my littered
Petrie dish culture than I poke and pool my
Strange little resources into.
The cripples walk in awe of such awkward,
For fear that there is so little left of it...