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With idols ground to dust,

And sad-branched trees all leaf-lost,

We would have hung our harps if we had any;

There are no more infants left to smash on rocks

Our enemies are infertile

Our enemies are us.

 

They have granted us a reasonable amount of time

To deal reasonably with the casualties;

Some love the dead,

Some love the dying,

Some love themselves.

There is a man I have seen in the rain;

I know not the list of his lust.

 

Tricks of atomic light

Play at freedom,

The sound of freedom flashing;

The modern saints have eaten fire,

And biolumescent halos moulder on their heads.

 

Oh, child of gender neutral being,

Can these bones live, can these bones dance?

If not, can we grind them

To fodder for feed?

Reduce, reuse, recycle.

 

For only pennies a day,

You too can change the world

And feel good about yourself;

Martyrdom is melodramatic, don’t you think?

Last year martyrdom was the new black,

But fashions change.

 

I look into your eyes and see emptiness,

But not what you imagine.

What if yours is the emptiness of a tomb?

What if your blindness is due to the dazzle of angels?

There was a time we knew no difference between “mess” and “mass,”

And silent assent may be pregnant with glory;

No crying he makes, Herculean Christ,

But power resides in his heel.

Runes are in hands, his feet, his sides,

Cinquefoil seals of doom that is hope.

 

But why bother to read them?

That language is dead;

Who gives a damn for the dead?

You are not like to meet them

Anytime soon.

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