Sunday, December 26, 2010

A Winter Prophet

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the miles we stride are suspicion
our teeth are prized alike by jerks and lords
we are born into incoherent prompting
receiving love and giving none in return
perfect passage
now creased now pressed now blazing
I take exception to this profession
of meekness and masquerade
and find my meaning
beneath the hands of departure.


all the angels are overdrawn
and will no longer fit through the arches
I have designed for them.
they roam about, these, my agents
and mix in the conspiracy of society
like bad art they
witness this, this awful beast
while we, we presume excessively
and wipe our ass
on these flags of dawn

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