For they fear that irony dependeth an ire,
but what name was fire for a hundred trillion
years in Eiron? The Earth cannot hear the name.
And the Earth cannot know the fame,
for the Earth will never see what fate
that Eiron had in the deep black sea
and changeless changing of the quality.
Socratic Irony is that we are born,
and that we die, all simultaneously
in the blink, blink-blonk of an eye.
An hour or so, the ire to lift, what life has
been here in the vast and starry drift, and
what will come, and what if none, ever none
and is not that enough silent grandeur wed
aperfectly to irony?
And is it not Irrony, as in a Tyranny without
a cross, an unknown grave of slop and toss.
TELL ME NOW! as I clutch your collars close
to the neck and throw you down into the mud
and dreck, WORDS ARE NOTHING!
but pale shadows of finer things,
mullecules and shiny beings...
And nothing much more than the firefly's tail, or
is it just a splitting headache after a night of ale?
Of course words matter, and how they build;
building, building, building still...
But no crescendo can be heard by all,
for the universe is wide, and tall, and
deep, and small, and the hope is that
we learn it all, though doubtful is that thing
upon a single mind so vast, this generative oddity
and its sorry cast, The Raft of the Medusa, indeed:
A ship of fools whose ocean's mead
depends an absolute grace
beyond definition, the quality
set loose on qualities.
