2000-06-06 Z035 {Utopia}

My imminent casket is cold, now these
baskets of flames that I hold give no heat.
I'm giving out tongues to fellows whose names
should be beaten and bellowed and sung,
but whose skins are stretched out in the sun,
and then hung in the rain on the frame of Utopia.

There's a young man with God's face,
aware of his place and peculiar nature,
who features now often in dreams –
We go off through the seams hand in
hand to my softening centre.

Our insular form is a fallacy, born
from our subjectivity, torn by and bound to divinity,
manifest in all the universe's cursed movements.

Hail the hearse of fleeting moments,
always packed with the condolences
of those who never acted on their instinct,
those suspended always at the brink of their existence.
Well, now I shall dispense with what I think, and sink
below the waves of impulse that engulf and bust my bones,
and disgust those not accustomed
to the throes of such abandon.