I throw confetti at the bastard

cheer the wild vitals in him

that have gone astray;

I fool the fishes into

jumping over his laughter,

while he's alive: he was a son

of the last magma

boiling deep before the cool age

splitting rocks without a hammer

breathing fire and fiery ropes

caught light besieged by dancing towers

the lure of these slow motion hours.

He's ragged after sampling their flavors

still an alien in his skin

raw spirit imprisoned

coin counters tracing the walls

diamond rods uphold the velvet order

signposts of quiet glory bask

in the neon wrought before the fall.