Infinite storage space for unreflected patterns.
Pretty pictograms from the fields of time and motion.
Uplifting monotones despatching Jupiters and Saturns.
Remember? The second we crawled from out the ocean,
vulgarians of the sun
poised against the tip of a cosmic fountain pen.
Perpetual is the quest. Which one?
It is late Sunday night. The gods playing Zheng Fen.
Hellfire preachers will gather round the hydrants,
describe to us the eternal wall.
Everything here that comes comes in fragments,
or it doesn't come at all.
Thunderstorms in the heart. Rainbows in the brain.
The conscience smeared with lemon curd.
This is what happens when tygers go insane.
This is what happens when you kill a mockingbird.
Let us go and eat some Chinese noodle soup.
Close down the equilibrium of unblemished hands.
Drop everything we can into an endless loop.
Then lead away what's left in ramshackle caravans.
Some of these phantasms just a little bit too zen.
Beethoven's 7th symphony plays to giant floating heads.
Some of us are scarecrows. Some of us tin men.
It does not matter which. When our yellows are as reds.
Clairvoyant barbarians say the circles are too round,
the squares are much too square.
Silence nothing less than a mockery of sound.
Let us drown at last in a harlequin despair.