Beneath a dozed off moon,
The Pleiades are barking
Batches of light—shit face central, over—
Vermillion meets Indigo halfway
A kiss sets the stage on fire.
The flashing darkness hides the little
Indiscrete facial spasms of
The Tipsy People.
A White Pallas—painted in the image
Of the light— glares downwards
From her perch upon the lintel.
These new heathens and their parties,
Ecstasy without devotion!
But praise be to the modern sacramental madness!
The Crashing Drunkenness,
The Venereal Blemish.
The old gods still get their blood,
If willing to stoop to
Drink it from the drain.
When the mass worships debauchery till death,
One must make do
When will robots rattle their cage?
When will the mirrors coat themselves in black?
Oh, cold neon can’t nourish on its own,
The sirens and the synths,
The black blocks,
The siphon song,
There must be more to what’s to come?