That rock that floats on
the sky,
as grey as a cadaver,
a poxy stone that sags
around in the dark,
painted with cold,
old whore.
If it’s too much
for us to understand
anomalies,
ten-dimensional fibrils
with spin,
tautologous languages and
paradox,
not to mention the
capitalist ideal,
the rituals of tribes and
blocs,
gangster democracy, land
laws and stuff—
if life is this diversity
of claws,
an octopus biting its arm
off,
birds that are all beak
and frosts that kill,
men of good intent who
are not good men,
is it not time for
something dead
like that grey lump in
the throat of night?
Or just time for a change
of mood?
