Well... Interesting times.
Through liquid crystal balls,down
Into mirrored pools we gaze
Above, the heavens writhe themselves alive.
The veil of stars is rent
And there, revealed, behind:
A cosmic battlefield
In infinite design.

The hand that span the astrolabe
Was that which moved the markets round.
We knew it was the hand of Love
Though never did we look above.

When slotward dropped that coin
Behind us, slow, into its money box
Below, and rose with gain, again,
Each day but brighter, ever greater,
Our faith in Decent Things, we knew -
Our Great Appreciation - kept
In check this stuff above whilst
Down on Earth we bent our necks.
To treasuries of cooling coals, to mountain piles of ash
Through appetites, then fevered dreams, then fantasies of loss.
Now petrified, we hide our faces down to our concerns,
And like the willows on the banks who drank the worries of
Their passing world.

And though we bow our heads it is but to our mirrored pools
We gaze along our falling tears and wonder how we now appear
And as that latest set of rushes runs upon our private screens
We sob our woes but as of real woe, we mostly nothing know.


When our numbers ceased to work
We cursed, at first, the broken cosmos
We knew our world was half collapsed
But reason bought us out from that loss.
So now we turn to face our Sun
For greater goods we raise concern.
We raise our heads into His dusk
To pray the day, again, return.


·····Prayer to the Sol Invictus·····
Brighter, bright against the Sun, two golden arches glorious,
Which called to us infinity (which is a kind of cross between comfort and variety)
And yea! In faith we followed Thee right out of human history,
For did those soldiers by that bridge awaiting battle orders know
The Eagle's wings which mantled them now circumscribed Creation, too?
In darkness we were lost until we felt Thy warmth, O Holy Sun,
Arising through the storms of error, spilling rivulets of light
Through all of action and relation. And Yea! That light was numbered so,
In numberings unfathomable to all but Thine own eye.
And though Thou hast fucked up, O Lord, in providence and faith, we know
Thy Highest Son, The Holy Market Infinite, who sits beneath Thee at His mill
Will turn His wheel and draw towards us Things To Buy and Things To Sell
From where all forms pour forth:
The Individual.

And darker, darker, smiles the sky
And closer, closer, grows its black
We drop our heads into the earth
To beg the soil take us back.

The Sun slumps through another story
The winds knot and wind the tides
The dark sky smiles upon us
'To whom', we sob, 'do we now write'?

But we are now in another story
In a book in a different tongue
No more will we write our own parts
Nor orchestrate the song.