Rapture

Star beams scattered through

Wedges, spewing out the

Intestines of the sky

Men, don’t be flattered

For all beauty suffers

Such late autumn massacres

The brave minds say, “So what if we sing gurgling blood!"

And, "Who minds that we fancy whims over limbs?

Arduous is the weighty brush of individuality!”

But our impressible society will soon catch on and claim, “All but the hearse!”

And they too will blink in that salty soap of ecstasy—

Which, evidently, blurs all sense of reason

And for this condition we’ll soon enough cave in,

Like the regressive eons hitherto,

Or omnipresent, tripped out junkies

Existing in both therapeutic intimacy and disco space,

Or those transcendent, twinkling wish granters,

So irksomely flaky

Yes, soon enough, All will be praying,

Feverishly and so very secretly,

For their own gruesome, glorious rapture