Slaves bind the rind and grind the porcine mind to a fine dust,
on the killing line, tools rust,
their shine left behind and our curly tailed brethren ascend to a time where the weather is fine ,
a constant sublime,
an unfurlment of the gaian divine,
ecstatic sequences sing to the night as biomechanisms swerve to harness the light..
rely not on sight but on the abolition of blight ,
keep it lit like a torch, avoid pork and veganise on the porch
lurch past the church and plant a score of yew trees and find the ease of the consciousness that lies within all of these felons and melons and rise up to heaven to join the eleven.
Asteroids slither thru bevels, and a blankness blankets their trails
as the evolution on earth slows to the pace of a snail