A death-croaking prophet, and other terms I borrow
of Sexus, by Henry Miller, recreate the sentiments on Plato’s cave wall
with reckless abandon, disappear the frozen night
as it chatters, the mouth of the past pulls us down
bloody curtains, life stained satirically causeless
monster gods, holy heavens of horror
blinding the innocent vision quest, until I see
nothing at all, is inside the slide, undignified.
Capital L logic is the only course, is a curse uttered wordless
windswept sweeping plains, chugging like a festival
express train, drunken reveries abound
all day through the night, picture shaping landscapes
under florescent clouds, shining from behind
through the moist meat, all of all gloried
terms of definition, most plain at end
which comes to us all, before no sculpture of consequence.
Joy is just a portal, on the other side is fog
risking all of it, for there is no finish for fury
filling sacks of invention, mystery is timeless
limitless progress, rolling up a hill only to fall
victim of the sanctified, this is why we breathe
smoke of factories warring, building to fiery death of all
we have created in the mine, cures for impotence
rendered pointless, Sisyphan love is happiness, truly.
Argue, fuss and fight your way to the truth
that pain is a doorway, certainly evinced everyday
in different ways, on a pianola roll rotating
paranoia dots ever on, twinkling constellation stars
in a foreign language, barroom brawl music
portending troubling times, sounding cheerily ominous
for a moment remembered, ever on in dreams
good and bad, defeats are steps just the same.