Lyra


The acolyte knows
To lift the cup
Listen to the branch
What follows
Comes from years
Of thumbing
Through
The rack
I can’t adjust 
The numbers
They remain
Debt 
To the dark manoeuvers
Of my final scheme
Sure
You could insert
An institutional color palate
But really
That’s not 
What
This is
In an old life
I was a market participant 
Watching trucks roll down the hill
I stuffed a song
Into a vase 
And left it there
Yes
I believe
In assembling
Seemingly
Disparate elements
Beyond the threshold 
Of decency
Yeah
It will take you
To a blurred dominion
Boofed down
The eye
Of the godhead 
The whole ribbit ribbit
Of the true beyond
Where 
Amidst the dust
Gargantuan celestial animals
Nightly graze 
On the dreams 
We die for

We Are The Romans


The way
Kenneth Anger
Did it
The fish throne 
Olympia’s lounge
Backmasking 
The whole
“Paul is dead” thing 
See what this consumer lens can do
The hairbrained notion
That poetry
Is a toothpick
Spearing the divine
To the ground
The whole fucked up club sandwich 
Held together
By a word
I could lay 
The whole thing out
The holographic principle 
That all phenomena 
Can be reduced 
To a sound 
That in the literature
There is this album
“We Are The Romans”
By a late 90s hardcore band
I haven’t listened to it
But I think about
That title
Often enough 
It’s something 
The way the money
Sloshes around 
Indulging your commitment
To the idea 
What about 
A geodesic path 
That terminates
With the other side
That crystalline stretch of mind
Where numerals play
Intoxicating in its finality 
They say
Budget your finance
I say
Assert the demonic erudition 
In your heart 
Otherwise 
It’s the Byzantine nightmare
Of what goes where
Despite the telegraphic cry
Authored from
The bleeding edge
It’s your choice
How the night ends
The nightcap 
Or the lover’s spat
In reality
Paul McCartney 
Is very much alive 
And continued 
His successful career 
Both with The Beatles 
And as a solo artist 
After 1966

Read Dead Poets


Philip Lamantia 
The Dead Sea Scrolls
The whole thing maps out
One big tree
Lou Reed
You guessed it
A Treatise on White Magic
Then
White Light/ White Heat
The alchemy
That is the culture
That constituency
You construct
In desperate transactions
With the moon
Yeah yeah
The moon
Poet shit
For thousands of years
The human record
Survived on paper
Weathering
One rotten empire
After the next
& Yet
Trance is a technology
Poetry is an
Unstoppable
Compounding
Spiral
Of ecstatic house cleaning
That outright push
When you would
Rather die
Than think
In those terms
Give me
The haunting
& Erotic
A proverbial throat clearing
At the height of my powers
It’s still
Not enough
No 
No
No
Ruseski
Ruseski
Let down
Your hair