crisaor
03-06-2004, 04:42 PM
Can you spot the author of this poem?
Awake.
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose they croon the ancient ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding,
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.
We have assembled inside this ancient
And insane theatre
To propogate our lust for life,
And flee the swarming wisdom of the streets.
The barns are stormed, the windows kept,
And only one of all the rest
To dance and save us
With divine mockery of words.
Music inflames temperament.
O great creator of being,
Grant us one more hour to perform our art
And perfect our lives.
We need great golden copulations.
When the true king's murderers
Are allowed to run free,
A thousand magicians arise
In the land.
Where are the feasts we were promised?
Awake.
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose they croon the ancient ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.
Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding,
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.
We have assembled inside this ancient
And insane theatre
To propogate our lust for life,
And flee the swarming wisdom of the streets.
The barns are stormed, the windows kept,
And only one of all the rest
To dance and save us
With divine mockery of words.
Music inflames temperament.
O great creator of being,
Grant us one more hour to perform our art
And perfect our lives.
We need great golden copulations.
When the true king's murderers
Are allowed to run free,
A thousand magicians arise
In the land.
Where are the feasts we were promised?