Worlds do die, necessarily,
by agency of their parasites
who with lances for reverence swing,
pad larders, pack troves, defend unwinsome broods,
toothy hordes, bowlegged ciphers;
while down on them bear the White Reasoning Devils,
with razor-sharp jawbones, prepared with will
to crimp iron in their fists,
to rob of light and to pot the niggardly
behind high walls, on soft knees
under chintz in ivory cells…
…from the sea where were stacked the vanquished
at ebb tide, behind bouncing cannons,
wreathed in smoke, boots dusted with lime,
to render dreaming man, to tear him from his twilight,
by his rotting roots, to feast on his moral heart,
to lash him with leathery fact,
to bind him to dry boards under sunshine,
to beat the damned with the long sharp edge of his own toys;
to turn on the unscrupulous the spoils of his misadventures —
to bash the impellers with their own secret object:
stuff with the black gauze of their sanction of fraud
their mealy spouts of superstition.
The myth-makers are quieted,
their tongues plucked with the glowing tongs
of their own First Principles.
From peak and plain storm the thieves of tomorrow,
riding with giant fasces;
soon, a brigand in every soft-lit window —
the new praetorian neck-choppers,
crushing pates with knotted bludgeons,
leaving hanging with catgut from the bedsteads
of the Bauble of Israel, doves with broken necks.
Every cheek of every last Mediterranean lamb
branded with a tiger crest.
Betwixt a violent totem,
saber-bared legions on black horses
from the ends of the fractured realm paved with governors;
lands laid waste by Cleansing Grants,
only savages spared the sword
to dine on the fringe like carrion;
to accelerate the aggregation of revering man…
The migrations out of the Republics
into the Territories cauterized by repelling hordes
advancing before a Maginot of Fire —
borderlands demarcated by smoldering charnel.
In the great and future territories
is bred in children a want of blood,
a taste for the vile and for the arbiter;
an appetite for the soft, conciliating, tuft-bellied animals,
intemperate and rotten-of-bone —
the patrons of degeneration:
the humanitarian must be devoured —
lips, intestines and hides.
Marked is the postulator, the shepherd,
the shearer, the dealer,
the tanner, and the butcher;
at whose blood in wooden saucers
tomorrow’s children will lap;
and no mercy, no courtesy, will be shown them —
no rude minds are spared the cleaver,
no vulgar herds abandoned to the wastes,
no infirm blight left to fester;
for the bellowing mob, no delimiter
to the will of man without superstition.
Over the feeble breakwater of the Decalogue,
a torrent of rage washes, down-tumbled,
and with it, ethical infernalisms,
exterminated by plague of sea,
hoodwinker’s lungs filled with brine;
with them, down into smoking vents, go their rafts of holly,
their mongrel creed, their spells —
statesman weeds in an ineluctable vortex,
There is no tenured Lamb.
The brute sleeps; he is not gone from the Earth.
He will wake yet to salt those
that would wring dividends from man-slaves,
then, too, into mince grind the man-slaves, the helots,
the flocking breeds weak-kneed for pittances.
✖ From the Novel, Orchard Park and Other Works