Gods come in,
shifty and angry,
like the voices of Baptist ministers,
riding desert winds.
Epiphany comes in the silence that carries the noise,
hard and fast and true.
Avatars of aggression hum hymns to entropy
across the endless eternity of electrostatic noise machines
that lie in the brains of the wicked crazy and the gifted strange.
You, the monster and the machine;
You, the vulgar corspuscle of cosmic power;
You hold all the keys to all the locks,
in time.
The world lies in the fecund folds of your dream-world during day-time.
Gorgeousness and gorgeosity,
silvery phoenixes of shimmering crystal,
unformed and pristine,
wing through you and about you . . .
enlighten you and break you and fuck you
with insubstantial feathers that prick like knives.
Ions in your skin twist themselves on end,
And you see what is and what will be.
Your mind is full of snakes,
and the god in you awakes,
and the eternity it takes
opens up the white ceiling.
And Dark Mother envelops you in cosmic folds
And mystery swirls around you
and twilight seeks a home inside your head.
All you had to do was ask.