Gust crashing on Face, he was choking while trying to breathe,
Head hung across Panes, Hair perverting in moist air of Speed.
Lights of many Colors, many Powers, fell on the Lap and fled,
Efforts at catching them were a wretched Sport on which he Fed.
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He saw, starved Beasts humming in privacy of ignorant Civility,
Cages of wormed Bones twisting in a vulgar Ballet of reality.
Then there were the winged Angels, who descended to Dirt,
Every Moon long and disappeared at the crack of Mourn,
Leaving behind insatiable reeking fleshes, who trudged long.
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Deserted towers blinded the stars as night gulped institutions,
Caged wits cried foul to the delight of masked revelations.
Weary uniforms, wobbly slaves, snuffed conquerors took to streets,
Since the shutter downed, till the clothed rose to their feet.
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Image: Pasiphae, 1943, Jackson Polock
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