up from the ground of Being
comes the shrake with the wounded eyes,
to lie in the thristle and shrub of earth,
make love with the grale who dies.
of no meaning to plates which grind below,
they wrestle and churn defilements of soil,
obscure in the veils cast off by grubs,
but patrolled by desks which take note of toil.
writing in books what the tekkies see,
sharing the twitters of minds ungrown,
desks chitter opinions and cast resolve,
salacious saliva all judgments their own.
“As Custom Requires,” they say and pronounce,
“the shrake and the grale will disappear
into seven and seventeen cycles of years,
they have nothing to add we have nothing to fear.”
the books with the desks with the disks are gone,
and the shrake with the wounded eyes
embraces the grale and together produce
the Beast with the mind that never dies.