Build what is destroyed under cloudy skies
when thoughts digress and judgement
of someone’s dearth of death
is lapped up by hungry dogs smiling all the way.
Pant and paint with red squirrel brushes
dipped in Cézzane’s oils
while the jester juggles his nine angry balls
and the fairy princessfloats in mid-air
through the flaming red hoop.
The wall is built.
The celebration begins with green fermented potions
to transforms lost souls into poets, artists, musicians,
and sad society’s misfits who bring forgotten truth
to the New York Times denied quickly by politicians
protecting their golden villas from teeming unwashed minions
in the Minotaur’s maze.
Live in giddy sorrow that can only be denied
when we wash our hands in our own warm cruor
that frees us to love as the sick destiny of ancient ageless prophecies.