"For I am he that sways in multitudes,
The Ur-reader believing faithfully;
With words beneath my starry fingernails,
And arms attendant to the mescaline sky.
Forced blue and always empty to the face,
Blue hands against the million-houred nights.
Not blue by name but in a walking breath
Beneath the curse and cry of glinting day.
But praying's pointless anyway now that
The Seven Hands that turn the Sky have moved;
And walking with the moon can't turn me on,
Because I end up doing all the work."
There's not a god-damned thing that you can do
When all the forest's trying to keep you still.