There was a movement
upon the infinite void.
A new song was born,
and The Goddess arose,
black skinned and dread
The Immaterial One,
like a blinding sun.
She grooved a holy groove.
Made suns and stars and
useful things,
like drawing pins.
Created dinosaurs, inexplicably,
and strangely coloured birds.
She created woman,
who gave birth to man.
Her name was Diamond Lucy,
her couture was Juicy,
Living on the dark side of the moon.
With her panther eyes
she witnessed all,
but fell down the well of dreams
and lay there in despair.
A haunting tune,
The Spirit Of The Age said
“Get up love you’re not dead.
Ok, you might have made a few mistakes,
like woman doing 80% of the worlds work
yet owning 1% of it’s wealth.
(A doozy that one)
But you’re not a failure
“ And the Goddess created
Donald Trump”
was perhaps not your best line….
We all make mistakes,
O Cosmic Mistress.
Don’t cry, little sister,
try loving angels instead.
“******* “ the Goddess said.
A tithe of light,
blinding white.
Then nothing but a void
forever night.