Beneath these metal thrashing lights,
down this mosh-pit of illusion,
scuttle seers with painted lips,
girl Nil and Nin.

She wears her face
in crucifixion,
dark tea-rose skin
of keloid beads,
parades like Dorothy's
broken wizard,
In pantheist glee.

And I play Sigmund
to her fancy,
Abraham to set us free,
a backhoe guitar to her Jamming
pedigree.

Before New Canaan
simple shepherds
haggling zuzim, flossing trade
grinding cloves to feed our ox,
with hearts vouchsafe.

Now,
only static's tainted voices
golden veins of paved abuse,
crowded dens of night-by boarding
two by two.

At times,
with mischief's fickle fingers,
udders taut and bell on head,
we raise our mascot
sometimes golden
mostly lead.