Monday, April 13, 2015

in a cold glass monolith



and so here is my rebellion
to create no children
and to live until I die
the earth is of poor design
and life but a sweet dream
without function
its poorest idiocy
results only in beauty
and the fools who weep for it
are surely its slaves
we can all find lurid pictures
of smirking fungus pilots
reigning elegant and erotic waspids
thistle samurais
women who crave child-bearing
and cannot see that every skull
is but a bubble in a boiling cauldron
whose sole spiritual message
is the continuance
of a weird incantatory voice
as if the sticks that are burning
have grown addicted to the flame

beyond the veil
there is only
the flower of building
wisps that construct
and are constructed
on no avail
of nous a vale

a volley
a trumbode
a farewell

let their choirs attempt
to even render
this old and rustic bottle
this cork of stir
this golden vibrating larynx
which aurums forth the ape
in a mystic cave
where dreams of bulls
and flowers
copulate in the sea

no rainbow phallus zeppelins will you see
my destitute and pondery wogs
nothing but a yanking
and a scree
and a world of yapping dogs

neeklairvo gurthuni
aand bok of chayne