I spring the door of ages with the sinews raging of what I have created
I am crusher of air-cubes where the inhabited live, to be cured of silence
fallen out of their anchored telephones like children starving
patios climbed by fire-escapes where grey thorns match red
the match head burns in a tray of glass where gin splashed my eyelid
crying child's wrath of imagination across magnetic poles of the earth
vision solid as the scales of a reptilian people
the inside of abandoned steeples laced with the poetry of
our few flown outcast brain-saviors, brazen announcers of the night
with a poisonous counter-poison that is alright.