Raise your clanging pitchforks against the light of the fire.
It was set to evoke the hell Of hell if you should fail-- For I am a breeding demon, Fixed to love, Sure as you are my throng, You cultivation! Fixed to hunt me down When the moon and your elevated Fires should search me Destine me...
In a wonder, a bubble-- Marshalled out of an ungrowing, Parented out of, Districted in those, (spray cans, no one) Kept in close proximity of those, then Left to modify on shit and blood You're not welcome here Policy
First only protruding, then Actually walking on Children's legs --for it was a group of them, Born in a silver instant On a wall.
Quickly, and covered in slime, They set about the miracle Of fire.
Spend money, devise a thing Do what you have to do to make this happen.
Produce a perfect blank canvas reminiscent
Of those armless clocks tolling in your sleep, That ferality of dancing oceans-- Had teachers not taught you Would you know their Names? Those faces between counted sheep whose features You could not restore, nor even dream about.
How romantic it is to have and to hold Nothing.
As it is not the substance in beauty that compels, But the compulsion that we continue to look for it Where so little lies open for us, and when Our need exceeds the provisions of space.
Sometime long ago when boys ruled us, Grown-ups wore decorative laurels in their thinning hair, And marble rose from every field, Either born out on a servant's back or Ripened up in the rain naturally-- Each white and gray crowning in the grass Pealed for its hour.
Certainly there must have been observers, people with no premeditated desire to remember or Even see.
But they saw.
See now the way she lacks a head,
Those bygone, laureled witnesses could not have wagered to even expect Such white and gray Hours Diminishing not her But our apprehension.