The velvet fox comes stalking in,
Her hair and body stink of sin—
Her holy occupation.
Between her eyes a sweaty drop
Silver bubble—lightning stop.
Ready poised
To mix its life with mine.
She moves as though a prancing horse
With tail and mane done up, divine,
A vestal priestess of the night,
Confessor of souls,
Keeper of secrets,
Watcher of all, the eye of Jove over all.
With heavy scented, belabored breath,
This muse of life approaches me.
Leaning close, closer still,
My ears are caverns, needing fill;
Icy halls that never see the light,
Searching for knowledge,
Seeking to see,
Wanting, hoping, stalling, waiting—
“That’s enough, your time is up,”
A dev’lish voice above explains.
With saddened smile, the muse retracts,
Taking her secrets
(holy hope for life entailed)
And slips back through the mystic hole,
Enchanted well where demons dwell.
It’s cold,
My mind is wet,
My raincoat slapped across my back—
An impotent enclosure.
About my head,
Much to my dread,
The city here and all about
Repeats its mystic tune.
I lift my collar to make a wall
To separate the east from west from all my state
And hide my unsatisfied mind.
I’m cold.
Down in the tube the prophet raves
Calling for justice, pleading for mercy
Mystic savant of God most high.
He lifts my coat tail,
Yellow plastic in hand,
Yellow plastic in hand,
And begs my help to free the land,
But I reject, withdraw, retreat.
I’d prefer not to.
The tube’s a narrow valve for sound
With pressure rough and contact loud.
The walls are cold and wet.
One of the people, lost in the crowd,
I think I almost see a face,
Like a burst of lightning in a storm
Or a carcassed fly within my soup,
But soon enough th’ impression fades
And memory’s consumed,
Oiling the machine.
Is there freedom in this land of the free?
I there hope here for you and for me?
I there a you to answer the question?
How then?
What then?
Why then?
Where?
I could think it through if I—
But I prefer not to.
NO!
I must escape, I must be free,
I must off—quest—for destiny,
There IS a fate for me.
Before my eye a mystic mountain
Rises up—ensembled high—
I seek to climb it; run, walk, then crawl.
It seems to ever steeper grow.
“Turn back,” they cry, “turn back you fool!”
I will not let them—
Must not stop.
For I, the knight, am near the top.
A siren wails, calling me with magic music,
But nothing, I, will now distract.
Higher, harder, faster, faster,
Stop.
I stand atop the magic mountain,
Far below the many wail,
Wail and gnash their teeth.
Before my eye the sun descends,
Bowing itself before me.
The world at large is dazzling, full,
Full of meaning, dazzling full.
I leap into my world—free at last.
I’m cold and wet, the pain returns
No more.
London bridge is going down
Going down
Going down
London bridge is going down,
And still the sirens wail.
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