21 days straight, thank f*^k for winter
The colour of air
Is it worthwhile to wish the world
To be less nefarious, less abrupt?
To call up some cradle
Some garish blanket
Under which to hunker
Genuflecting to the dust
Is it futile to call for peace
To ask for less perversion, less crime?
To climb some multifoliate bough
Some blessed trunk
From which to gesture
Idle handshapes at the fog
Is it wrong to make an inquiry
To outline our vile hypocrisy?
To conjure up some silken veil
Some obdurate cloak
Behind which to linger
Glorious corpses in denial
Is it habit now to abrogate the truth
To deal in misnomers, outright lies?
To weave some slippery rope
Double noose the knot
Dangle twitching by the throat
Last words hyperbole
Are we too soft to rot in comfort?
To eat maggoty meat, offal rich
To build some fecund palace
Some place of reckoning
From high slit windows pass
Our judgement upon the earth
Is it too late to clamour for salvation
To cut the bindings, the shackles lift?
To hide in some awful cell
Some windowless jail
Mad cackles from a corner
Rocking gently back and forth
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