At the harvest fellowship,
We believe in one vision, a holy, most almighty, GIVER OF THINGS.
FOR AN EXTRA TWENTY WE BELIEVE IN ANYTHING
IT’S OUR KIND OF THING
BEING A Maker of money,
Our kind of salvation by the power of television. Hallelujah.
So make money.
I guess this preacher JUST got blessed and became famous. AMEN. HALLELUJAH.
And our kingdom shall have no end.
Did I tell you about the profits we’re making?
You gotta believe but keep it tight with the insurance.
I shall probably get crucified but that adds to the premium.
And my kingdom shall have no end.
Believe in me as the giver of heaven
Who CAN pull them in.
I believe NOW I HAVE SPOKEN YOU CAN KILL YOUR NEIGHBOUR.
Observe the enthusiastic dead.
A carriage of them we will make
and fill their steady, boys, steady,
with steady state.
The bodies we will make.
We tend to speculate
on what they might have said
about their rotting.
Neither will the bugle wake them
As the rotting sun is set.
on a high walk communicating
like i was and ever shall be original
without fault both intimate and numerate
to all the above to sing of where i live
in pure autonomy the moon bid me unlink
to see a ‘dans maen’ of merry maidens
are the stars talking in my voice
i remember lying in the grass at home
and what the stars first gave me was eternity
as my pulse raced the image darkened
and i floated away into infinity
by another name, the nameless wood:
a strenuous monotony of being awake
where I could not go on
to the middle of a vision
to walk and go beyond
going to the limit
to hear only the echo of footsteps
in my viewless, steady tread.
i had no more lust for knowledge
even its branches
suspended even from sleep talk
to know more about my sleepwalk –
in this soft earth only secrets.
as i realised the senses between night and morning
into a chasm of names
but at the appointed time saved
to live forever
although all of us alive –
by a signal lit upon the sky:
a great blitz of seats
reserved to hold hands
falling into a minute that seemed like a century
ready to leave
although I would fail to say good-bye
and would be missed and miss-ng
a temporary monument
these temples I wrote of
now silenced as trucks crashed
into our last defence and all the eyes
could not devour in one sitting the sight
of so many;
you can still find me though I am missing
in a chasm of something.
He stands upon the grid,
Like hairy Cupid.
He rules above us as porn king
A model of international stardom.
He is to himself magnificent
As animal thing.
He does much, much
And wears a magic ring.