that the end-days with their black ships
& splinters of fatted goats & sun's cattle in a trench
will arrive shortly at gate 11 has never seemed
more obvious & unavoidable or bad for my head
with its trained & clever neurons white light tunnels
the wet dead season is rolling time to rehearse:
how's it done? tip back your head open the mouth
seal it with gum? or define exactly what is shut or closed?
this is constructed - the eastern-most point of consciousness,
the red flowers that feed the habit. three grams of reality
powdered & packaged in capsule form & he woke, dressed
walked outside and paused said it was a food earned a living
as a plumber and went on to work in film production.
not Stephen Hawking. playing Mastermind by remote.
these days the real is so much better - we have mountain
wolves & lions dressed as crew & a well-trodden path
where stag are plentiful & men fall to on skewered meat
in the proper manner wrapping the thighs in fat & making
it for the fire that we warm ourselves by is metho-fuelled
My Favourite will colour your lips purple the witch knows this
her drug makes men fall about in sties waiting the swineherd
in me makes libations to Pallas Athene with her many names &
clean hair bougainvillea & rose quartz & her hands to touch
a fine brown chalk or her lips with no reference to wine