You say your hurricane lamp can issue
no more the perfunctory flame
of artistic innocence
(Ostrich mentalities, you have seen,
will not help the situation.)
no more the perfunctory flame
of artistic innocence
(Ostrich mentalities, you have seen,
will not help the situation.)
I raise my fist to your guts
The strafing reports the assault and battery
of questions which splinters out snailshells
decide us in their maledictory exercise
For none can afford the lyrical sanity
of the hermit when his clothes are on fire
I raise my fist to your guts
But then when troubadours become matches
in the frenzy of storms they must underline
their finest truth are iron banners
to wrap the corpses of fleeting slogans
And Compatriot, this is my concern...
I suppose you can break the kernel of these days
better than poor plastic slab will allow
you know the intricate weave of the barb wire roost
into which you must plunge.
Oh my concerns overpowers me
I do not know how to escape from
such wind as bear you now away
from your once unruffled waters