In this land, in this world, In this time, in this place Behind these glasses Beyond these fingers Lurks forever now The subconscious beast. In this fortress, in this tent, In this steel scaler of skies There is no safety. There is only sadness and Sadism and ***. In this realm, in this womb, there is only death, But no so strong a brew As in that old place of blue. There is plenty of time to Linger between the notes And the ceiling tiles Where they store bodies. In this book, in this song, choral choirs sing past pages and pages of long legs and headline barcodes and hairline calendars. There is no peace here, No last dedication to mark The passing of Father Time or Mother Season. There is no monument to White and black; All sins are marked in Black and blue, Like Earth, the brighter side of a black eye or a Black hole. In this landscape, in this plays cape There is no escape.