In a dark field of lilacs, turning
The center of the system burning
As the protozoaic stew is churning
Cracked lips and hands yearning
Mangled bodies in tangled masses
Rotting in their separate classes
The moons and planets making passes
And though the corpses call it fascist
Rotation is their only asset
In degradation they have lasted
In amber tombs and waxy glasses

But are you better, hypocrite reader?
With tubes for love and fear for leader
While we all may be acting
Are you even in the theater?
Or are you busy, fussing and packing
For a trip to firmer shacking
With your pleasures all cracking
So it goes, life was lacking
So you decided to give it flavor
And a savior which to savor
But my loves, you lost your labor
And traded all for velvet sabers
All in all, you now are sinking

Into streams and fashions linking
Drowning in what you were drinking
Retrospect asks what you were thinking
But winking suns forget your function
Not knowing this, your crucial junction
Of beauty in the mind’s construction
Lost without diction, rhyme or punction
Or signs or time or holy instruction
Such is the burial of one summer son
The end of all which he sprung from
But this is not the final dance
Yet the wheel, another chance
For us to morph and to enhance
This may be the circumstance
To become the finders of hung men
To confront all, to destroy, to mend







To rearrange, to straighten bends
To count the eggs, and the hens
To learn, to forget, to learn again
To understand your loving friend
To question that which you defend
This moment you must apprehend
With hands that have embraced
The soil and the prisms face
That toiled in forgotten space
But haste is waste, so smile, taste
The colors raised upon the sky
The colors that create you and I
The sounds that never will die
The illusions presenting why
And confront the final bend
That will lead us out, then back in, then out once again