Blotted starlight from sunken Heaven
Aligning separate suns with black-hole-being
Under salivate fires of flickering, flickering,
Fading into condensation breath;
Tormentation of the insipid other—
Congregation of a half-life sect.

Shimmering oblivion forms dancing-in-sunlight—
Ripple thickens the lip of the sand.
Structural emblem searing the desert—
Music slip cockhantuu.
Gape-sunrise scolding, turney—
Searing shackles!
My feet!— walk upon sun-furnace sand!
Emerald Green, reside in distance!
This, the gift of grassland?
Gapefold Turney. Contstad, noble—
Sweet milk oozes from the scorpion's gland!
Oasis of milk— of mother-cry milk!
Breastmilk of this sun-scorched strand!

I wander thro’ each charter’d street.
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow
A mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackening Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

As I drew the Philosophical Tree, darkness swarmed around me,
And I knew a new Line and had a new sense of myself and saw how I came to be.
I knew how matter had been constructed and how it formed when unlocked from its shackles,
Designed to be unburdened by reality.

Now I see the lyrics of one million liars dancing about me;
And I pray for those who remain lost
And those who are yet to be set free.

I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell,
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

Now I see a child with the fully-developed head of an adult,
Amidst this darkened hall, waiting for a mother-call,
Gesticulating for the pain of a forgotten war.

Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk!
Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand!
Please!
I see it now!
The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread.
The maddening has begun!
We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon in chambers of the dead.

I have put the Emerald Green to one side.
Submerged— within the lapping tide!—
Look now! Steadfast!—
Stronger than the Ark's iron mast—
Three angels approach above the water!
Transfixed, I set my gaze beyond the Light.
Shall we reside beyond that hallowed glow?