Song of the Anti-Symbolist
You knew the myth and the spell:
It was harbored by the olde world
The dusty lanes of Ireland,
rusty causes of forlorn fame.
The Empire has served its demon;
Flaming ball loose thy hold,
For other times have come and gone
and rubbed the ground with bitter aspirin.
Light the candle of remembrance;
this fast will cleanse our sense;
Acid rains take precedence
on icy summits, sallied over by toothless
faery agents; they give no Kaddish.
The frog leaps and is swallowed up
by a red pond of Cimmerian justice.
Mayhaps this time, this space,
flowing like seething pitch,
longs to kindle a guardian race,
yet nurtures the thorns of Apocalypse;
Flaming orb temper thy kiss.
Page 36 (Black Book: Light Heart)
|
|
|
|
