Pleasure Dome
The change is slowly coming
like murder in the back alley.
It won't be neat or sweet, but
messy, and the moon will reflect in the cardinal pools.
The hand of a stranger wrenching the deepest secrets
from any subdural cavity, flinging the remnants about.
Akin to a drunken neurosurgeon who has a penchant
for psychotic episodes.
The effluvium of dormant limbic activity
reaches the nostrils by way of a ghost's lingering, indecipherable
love melody.
A soulless beggar or a stray dog on my porch
gives reinforcement to the crumbling foundation
that rests before the golden cross.
Cherubs need more grease for the gears that
the bedraggled nobleman has primed for the faustian machine.
Shall the slaughterhouses reopen?
Maybe the banquet should be served on the convex table
complete with
sandwiches made of dust and weeds.
The change brings dirt devils and the clanging
of wind chimes that belt out Beethoven's 9th
with all the glory of any bacchanalia
ever dreamed up by the whims
of peripheral thoughts.
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