>>43251
This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing
Across deserts and plains the lost feast
Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time
A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night
Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry,
The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on
A film screen descends, and the silent movies play
Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils
On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick
And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood
And fill haunted women with knives and kites
And gauges and valves and make them weep long hymns
To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend