"Uzbek Imbolc Limbec" (Pessoa XI.)

Redolent fire sands recover course
out of shapeliness, out of napalm pomade.
Cubes, domes, and death cults promise worse
in ravelling rockets, now we pour the Kool-Aid.
If ever a super hero has lost heart
it is because of this. As chaos grows
and desert realms in which each shares a part,
the solidest presence is the one who goes.
You will have tomorrow remembered this.
Jahiliyyah and stupefaction drive;
the tower rises from the rain-crypt. Is
charity enough? A ladder's skies
yearn. The dead, with customary skill,
would annotate this holocaust of will,


"I want to spit in the face of every writer who first obtains permission and then writes." --Mandelshtam