Hierarchical crocks of meaning.

Harsh crackling in the purest of hymns

Is heard on every shore; 

Swirls to the surface 

To populate the saintly blue with

Viscous rivulets of oil.

From above we keep trust

In the august presence of

Our mighty ocean, 

Ride its waves in a reed-woven

Crib, kissed and

Sleeping safely 

Above the thrashing of 

The deep unknown.

From that balcony we bow down

To the gods they deigned to save, 

Cupping desert water but

Supping running sand.

We sway to the chants that

Built a prison, 

Daub the walls again in

Hues of heavenly landscapes.

They beckon and seduce - 

A light to the moth

Who dies a virgin

And leaves her children.

Are you not killed by that

China doll with painted lips?

Those that made her

Sold her, 

Emptied female saplings of their

Coarse and ruddy strength, and now

They drift supine

Awaiting bedecken phalli as

The black thickens into pools

And pulls at hair and skin.

I beg you, disbelieve 

The ancient murals, snap

The vines of bulwark cages

Before haunting symmetries and 

Perfect flowers 

Strangle all organic love.

Scrub you raw, 

Clean of words.

Look inside! The

Angel's carved of stone and

His head is full of oil.