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Poem	crisis has a fact to get straight it needn't be the end of the world beginnings too are coated with death because we've had enough of the old's dirty jokes doesn't mean there's no more grass ready to push itself up or dreams can't go on being lived the dreamers' necks having been twisted (visions root in mists and spread outwards) the chrysalis has to be taken apart for the wings to erupt into freedom ideas grow from the flesh they've grown into murder's a godfather to birth and the born sing illiterate songs they intend as a new kind of language only as their hands bloom red with their own brand of murders will their words simmer down to the same but their rawness is something to hope for and the cry in the middle of hate is a cord we should grasp - no matter how often it will serve as a noose - when the dungeon we're in is so cosy crimes-to-come put the boot in for eden
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