Fell to pieces
like melting
ice, the world.

Carving crumbling
doom of every shade
smells its way
rising slithers
hair on the back of necks,
and in crevices,
dark as the
truest truth.

Corrosion blind
unforms, only
blindest motion
can spread cold
the space
between
space.

A standing, sitting, hiding
He,
In every motion survives,
Alone,
in mountains cradles the
highest heights,
and the wettest, vernal hearts
of men.

Books tower severed minds
every letter fingertips touching
at the same time tasting
skin, Roman, Greek, Indian,
every thought bled each breath
passed through teeth of any
dirt or colour, records(tower)
of any thing that ever lived
or any thought that ever burst
the skin of a planet Our Earth
corroded like Christ and Genghis Khan.

In the soils, long churned, he
swims man-like
hardening river and dust into
nostalgic brick.
Studying the foreign shuddering
of history,
World Spirit forming, now
unformed.
He, the apotheosis
and antithesis
of that strange brood,
Man.

Meanwhile, around
the heights, highest,
death tilling with
slimy hands, bleach
and seeds of madness
sown, dig wholesale
infest carnal marrow and
bone, holy white all around
from the deepest,
blackest blues in the sky and
sea and human soul,
drags filthy apocalypse
in papal robes, ragged
bluntly spreads a dirty flame,
and life stares eager at
the brightest stars,
yet no Rapture drops,
only Ragnarök reeling drunk.
The deadliest thoughts
are those half thunk.

But clean shine
The highest heights,
Olympus and
Parnassus in one,
Where He lives
And studies ceaselessly.

The only sound is a
perpetual wetness, the
dripping, flowing,
soaked meltings,
moist as veins or tears.

Scribbling mad,
whirling mad,
He cripples.
The burden of
so much atrocity
weighing mountainous.
Into a mystic,
foggy lunacy
He descends, open
swirling hungry
and endless through
paths too well
trod.

The inky, milky mind of God,
sanity’s harem, like an empty
stage stares blank and silent.

Finally, from the
most absurd corners
of asylum he stumbles glorious
trailing truth from
the depths of
nightmare, an oceanic light,
He vows to rain
upon the empty world.

Quiet quivering He
straps on the prophet’s crown
and peers at last
into the essence
of all things and what it means
to be.

The rain and floods have
stopped, an eerie
silence settling. The
stillness of a sphere
uncertain of its motion.
Then, over hilltops and
burnt filth, thumps
a minute sound,
growing by the second.
Now thunderous,
all around surge survivors!
beating tribal drums
and tweaking synthesizers,
they make a music
as sweet as birth.

Gathering around His mountain,
they sing new songs
and new history,
thriving with a new pulse
for old humanity.

He listens and He knows
He’s not alone.

But He’s the last
orphan of the Earth
and purity burns
more singular than
any man could ever
Be.