CANTO I. ("Carbon Dioxide")

Draw tungsten.
Glow of bitterest value
artifice; April
charm and the propensity to gouge
are inextricably entwined. Whose object
less lonesome
in the cool evening
walk back to the train in a northern
capitol, strains of bebop
rippling a cubist façade, stubborn
against the squaring eye, or like Bush Junior,
dense. There, an ancient
grief embraced as gray sludge the mollusk
the acid of an edict
Scorpio
wept. Sky cubicle
and nowhere the exit airt.
To what forest make my druid allegiance?
The subject
umgang melts, wobble of an oval
in space; a diamond cleavage
through seas of molten
dry ice. Even my words land noxious
whose wings are wings of cabonaceous angel
fire-homage;
in lungfish azury depth
our towers rise. Course innocent of torsion
tastes alum,
steers to an edge. No worship's cudgel
beyond, plants tombstone;
past, declares sabbath.
Jugular
justice. And this world to the world's wolves
will fall, dark stains in its seiche
and waters beacon-devoid, of frigid width:
now let us fadge a dogma
of yoghurt
and rainbow-buttress'd passage thence. Spores deafen
the fretted perplex, sage, springing open
to one so stalwart
as to curve the lithe culprit;
Dusty's "Windmills" cover, pale blue juniper
berries drip absence
a monster
most unlike this crapulous peacock.


God is a Moog.


Code Pink Alert.