Part three 1991
Artful dodger, he...
paragon of slithering stealth...
commanding with despotic,
hypnotic terror from my
annexed solar plexus
commandeered universes within
my dying universe...
ever controlling, compelling
beholding
the apple of his eye held fast
like Gulliver
in invisible, venom-racked
twines of total,
final
corruption,
silenced
gagged
muted
yet seeing all too clearly
cart-wheeling, reckless galaxies,
worlds aflame.
He peers
into the stained-glass of the monastery
sees the looting
devours the booty
scatters the revolution
enforces jihad.
Colorless night...
drunken shadows steal the light
for ransom I suppose
so I ask
our quick-change artist where
he gets his aurora-borealis
threads,
ever-changing rearranging
facsimiles of dreaded,
two-headed
beasts of the moment,
chesire, mood-altering,
google-eyed paradigms of
new world orders-
new
paradigms of old
google-eyed world orders
but
me
he'll never hear...
I have no voice...
only this
possessionless, formless
obviously continuing
evidently never-ending
presence.
"Is death a comedian
Mr Chameleon?
A stitch in time?
Or
am I
Narcissus...
and you....
can it be?
reflect...me?
You...?
reflect...
me?"
end of part three
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