in the temple of the unfinished world,
a trillion madmen are describing themselves to the Stars,
their eyes shocked by the strangeness
of the curve of space and time into a sudden disbelief
that any of this is actually happening,
like tickling the face of God
to see what happens,
until the doorbell rings and a faceless stranger
answers,
revealing the sneer of some Convenience Store Fakir
in the cold light of the dawn,
where the forest is multiplying it's cellular nuclei,
as if to whisper
none of that, none of that, none of that ever happened,
whoosh.
And the admonition of the Satyrs, in that temple
is to burst against the Sky, and land upon the jagged cerebellum
full of ancestors whose faces
have not escaped the basement of that Void,
where the Creator is weeping
in Blakean Silence,
the last Londoner dancing on the roof
until no song remains
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