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!