In Response to an Oracle


At a Rosicrucian wedding where the guests bring their own
chymicals, in a posture of spiritual renewal morally destitute prostitutes
prostrate before a monument to the elusive ephemeral, writhe together
in the sanctuary of a temporal temple for the temperamental,
a chorus of poisonous voices repulses and entices, taunts one
with riotous chants and false promises, to ride a limo
or write a letter to their congressman, by resonance to
perform vivisection from a considerable distance on those miserable sheeple
married to the business section, with chiseled figures mislead them,
to sell our possessions and give the profits of our
distress to exorcists, to rejoice at the crossroads where fork
the dark corners of the seven parts of the world,
the heavens, the earth, to lie with those diodes and
dildoes who play-out the disobedience of a romance somehow still,


even now, eluding the Hays Code, to buy into the
cries and crises of platinum-banged bearded sirens in love with
allegèdly “straight” men whose names must be erased every time
it’s discovered none of them actually came, in response to
an oracle whose wingèd minions sing on-air what calls cannot
be traced, gifted whores white as fire whose thighs, redder
than the sea they leak, part and ride radio-waves spread-eagled,
wide eyes the colour of coarse iron upon which dances
scorching lightning, a day late and a dollar short, we
pay no mind to their Rabelaisian revelations, we take nothing
but chances when we dance with your omens, on notice
that words lustrous and pure as the first snow riven
by winds over river-bends into indifferent steel behind which war-time
windows are sealed, are words which go nowhere, no matter


how interpreted, even when marketed as “clear-as-glass”, inconsiderate as a
depravity of ravens preying on their brethren dead at their
own sordid funerals, molesting from myth’s unutterable corpuscles of vivid
language no longer visceral all meaning which has since gone
limp and is now languid, or the Brits who took
the S from “Sports” and attached it haphazardly to the
ghastly “Maths”, mask off the mascot, scandals will follow the
forbidden and carnal knowledge of your yin-and-yang contract once public,
that your disclosed deal with the devil was dismissed as
being less lucrative than it is actually, that to suffer
eternal dismemberment in the next life is worth more than
your life and talent, or mine, your guests insignificant members
whose assembly your mysterious misery defines as its ambiguity divides
those you invited, we with whom you dine, defying the


hospitality of this date we saved, splicing at a frenetic
rate these friends your portents frame as fiends, editing out
portions you don’t like, unapologetic propagandic motives summing up into
inaccurate composites of real characters unflattering narratives raping the fates,
sewing a reconstitution of constituent parts into Frankenstein shapes casting
lots, passing off as fact a fallacy of images bereft
of any originals to compare them with, against which laws
I cannot attract fail to protect me from allegations that
I cannot act in the same capacity as you, sacrosanct
iconoclast whose tenacity has me derelict, accusing my Self of
another’s destruction, adopting the stance of Vesuvius when I should
be used to this, unmoved by the rumours of fools
who use tongues of flame the way I use them
as tools, burning into blame more than they can take.