Oracle of Giza

A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin The blood-curdle choke of rage from before Now purchased like plasma from the needle store Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye Will re-write the laws of your time to die Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast In the once Green land where sage grew fast The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot None could account for the empty space of land Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price None could garner their strength or bleed them twice