May is the month in Phoenician Britain
When they worship Nimrod,
The Baal of Beltane,
With bagpipes from Morocco,
The original serpent king
With his hybrid test tube babies
And his two-faced forked tongue
That all our Gods came from,
On a throne of horns with his virgin bride
Who wanted just to kill him,
Mammi at his side,
Known as Isis, Ishtar, Astarte, Athena, Diana, Mary,
“the one face hidden by the many masks,”
Like the Hebrew initiates of the Egyptian mystery school
Who were turned by Babylon’s dragons into Jews
To transmute Zion’s sun and Moses’ muse
And told to follow rules like wishing harm on all the Gentiles
By high priests in psilocybin mushroom hats;
Or Jesus, whose real name was Arrius Piso,
The murderer of Nero,
Who made believe that he was Horus
While the Essenes washed their hands
And the Nazarenes joined the Zealots,
Wrote a brand new book for rebel Jews
That instead remade the moldy Empire Holy,
With new terms of surrender
And a cannibalistic eucharist.
In Manhattan’s pentagrams of darkness
Draculas with dragon wings drift through magick black,
The stones that healed in ancient time now sexualized to shame,
Mage mascara makes Egyptian eyes
On hierophant hermaphrodites
Who walk below the gold of pharaoh tombs,
Its columns, discs and obelisks
As if the slaves once trapped there
Are no more, as if the scientists of sound
Who imagined Saint Patrick’s Cathedral,
Where Jehovah and Lucifer are the same being,
The one unquestioned good in a hell of endless threat,
Have not evolved to deeper sine waves
In vocoder voices synthesized
To synthetic primal rhythm.
There’s fear as far
As the mind can perceive, the rows of empty storefronts
Are filled with things none can afford,
But they drive their broken hearts to gain their share
Of what is visible, material, because they’ll never be
One of the invisible, the royal reptiles
Who need blood, not flashy and disposable jewels.
The gargoyles watch with wings perched
On every public building that reminds us to obey.
In the caves new Mohammeds take dictation
To keep those taking power from the saved.
Above them all the black Moloch cathedrals,
The stone temples of pyramid money
That vie with passing serpents in the sky.
Every good girl must get raped sometime,
Every boy must be arrested with his pants pulled down,
Every vodka must be top-shelf for the chemistry to gel.
Last call for oblivion, for the soul too willingly bartered
For a kind look or the right word, or an edge when
Chasing pussy down the catacombs of sin.
“Are you responsible?
“Mistakes are always made.”
“Are you reliable?”
“We people have our failings.”
“Are you professional?”
“Or do you take things personal?”
“Are you worthy of my trust?”
“You begging child who was born worthless.”
She finds the moment to unleash
Her reticent resistance.
He takes the opportunity
To squeeze between her drink.
There are no words
For what he is,
And she could never say,
So the play the roles of heel and femme fatale
As the poison that they drink turns into words,
Turns into shame, and no ones sees the seven stars
That glow above her head, more radiant than
The crown of thorns adorning Lady Liberty.
He plays the one song of his life over and over
While mold grows on the hotel wall
And every person there wants to abduct him
And the only producers who can help him here
Are dealers, with white gloves and woolen aprons.
The life he lived was not worth living,
How the people thought the same and dreamed
Of nothing, but surviving
While the picturehouse played every possibility
In his head, in every home at ten o’clock
The giant blue-eyed screen
The live feed near from where he lives now:
The Masonic Temple of Druids with their wands of Hollywood
Performing the same trick
As the Wiccans, Freemasons, Mormons:
The rings and secret oaths, the beatings
And exhibited slaves, while in other rooms
They sacrifice some children for the adrenaline
At the moment of their death
And no Satan dogs from Sirius
Will ever detect the bodies under bodies
In their cemeteries, as dreamers come each day
To find the prize that they are missing,
The stardom and the love that has been stripped
Away already, and will never be returned.
The cities underground, to Lancaster and Reno,
Will make of them what everyone desires:
Programmed slaves who always win the best awards.
The obelisk and dome at zero Greenwich time
At Canary Wharf down 1206 from Isle of Dogs
Like Angkor Wat is pointed to the Halls of Draco.
It’s best that I should make my own copper astrolabe
From now on.
Still I have such sadness
For all the lizard people
Who see with eyes deranged
To patterns, colors without form,
Their paper skin no home for love or warmth,
Just the humorless business of
Setting traps for the stupid, the doubting, the lost
With a web that must stay spinning
And the planet spinning nearer to the central sun
That wakes us all up from the deepest sleep
To brush away the ways they tried
To save us from ourselves.
We needed all that sorrow
To be laughing, laughing now.
