Working all weekend
like a tomcat dodgin' raindrops,
dancing over the self-concious cages
sabotaging the didactic missles.
A single-track mind, weeping constantly,
always sharp and at attention,
the supreme commander of the meatsuit.
Like a sudden gust of turbulence in the evening,
the effluvia of a new angle feels fresh and hi.
Riding this wild thing to its own conclusions,
feeling so naked that its right,
but rightly exposed to every tragedy
and ready for real human triumphs
which is to climb a holy mountain,
to crush the ego into a soft sand
and knead its suffering into clay
which is the absolute earth
and form it into a greatness
which was yesterday's shit.
So get wet, tomcat,
or spend your life spinning
your indigenous dance.
Every epic is formulaic,
archaic and prosaic.
So do as you are destined
leaving your desolate home
of which there is no return,
which has become wilderness
and the house of new tenants
and enter the odyssey which awaits.
