We all shine on,
he says (nobody hears),
by the striking light of shots,
with golden bullets in our chests,
in the green eye of a yellow God
standing still beyond Milton Hayes’
absent eyes.
We all shine on
in borrowed time
from honeys and kids
and cats and dogs and gods,
all in the hall of householding
fame, smiling at our last
lost minute.
We all shine on
cookin’ years to tasty days
and tasty beds with pillows
full of absent wealth of lust
to last in borrowed time
with borrowed selves
in absent memories.
We all shine on
like a striking light in the eye
of a one-eyed idol to the north
of Katmandu, seeing the childish
godfaced game above our inner oneness,
that stark shine striking our fearfulness
like the golden eye of a fish in the abyss.
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