December 1971

I am the same: I am Æon

Before the prion and the iron

The ion and the ink

The hygiene and the stink

Tune and kink

Of the incense planet

And the clock

And the dock

And the baying of merchants

3 or 4 for 3 or 4

Of that grain made me the Star

That we wish had not been known

Or drawn to us-the precious Romans

Face or fake in jade

I am ZION-or Æon

I forget...

Lord of the groves of olives and oranges

And the dead tribes of the central scribal verse

The tablets of stone and worry

Thou shalt have no no no nothing

But BaalStorm

Put yourselves on our thrones

Twelve or sixty or the blind

I though of her just now-

She is there naked like the water

I cannot touch the punch

Of her lips I cannot

Dare to touch lip or skin or fold

I gave gold to buy much less

And gave more

And nothing stayed but the storms

Proud parade around the screen

I will myrrh or myth or memorise her

Her forehead in the Roman dream dusk

Room for one! Rune for one!

Placed so much on her or hers

That sand-scattered Moon

Of the valleys claiming

The Peacock and the Owl behind me

Every grace was fresh

But I felt the lash of Gospel

Or Eagle-I could no longer divide

Cæsar from the Trance or Twilight

There is mum and dad

And I am glad

To be back and young

In December 1971

With the storms so far in front of me

And the cell swelling with waves and shards

On each of the brick is the crack

And the crick in the slit

Watch men

Watch birds

Watch TV

And the SatanVans

And the words I heard

From the birds on fire was

Æon-makes nonsense

Or sing Omega

BaalStorm! BaalStorm!