The terror storm is not yet here for us
so children’s lullabies can still be sung;
aboard bodies are pressed against the gears.
When I think of the old providence,
the land where gods were megaliths
and human wants were always gone
the moment the chief called for blood,
I think that our ancestors had known
that beating hearts were a pestilence
to be separated from the chest
before the plague had taken hold
of more than just their overlords.
The king still sits on golden throne
drinking our blood as wine;
he needn’t skippers to sail the ocean’s tides,
he needs our hearts and minds.
We are now so tolerant,
so willing, that intelligent people
are unable to speak freely
Around we go again,
around this ancient dance with plague,
and though we have no rose
blotches to mark our perfect skin
I see beggars suffering silently
uncounted out in the streets,
these old rags slumped over plead
but only each to each
razor wire fences ascend
as phoenixes from the ashes
itness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,
I do not wish to be
the voice of the Bering Sea’s struggle,
nor would I deny the plight
of sea ice and polar bears at once living and dying for home.
Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,
We need the Old Colossus now
with it’s defiant blazing torch
as architype for our goddess
We are the heads
above La Brea’s pits,
our limbs all stuck in tar.
No more porcelain gods,
or the prejudice for the painted gods,
or the gods of plastic and oil;
What if I made you change
your ideologies today?
there’s babies soft and strange
and hungry human hearts at play
where algorithms dare not go.
Oh, man, they’re gonna make it look like suicide
and type a note on how life is not all joyrides
Neither mother, maiden, nor crowne
can morn more the passing of this nation
Do not believe bankers, princes,
or governments; for all their wealth,
glittering gold, and grasping at control,
I will not be remembered,
not in the history classes
or in the breath
that fogs rose colored glasses
when widows weep at dawn.
There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.
We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,