We will never be anybody’s
only the pulse that heads
to not yet is ours
since Dad gave us the Eschaton
told us to keep it safe and warm
a trembling animal
beneath our coats
We’re so very small and tired
just holding hands
Come come. Do relieve worry of many peoples by promising poetry here is merely transcription of overheard.
ReplyDeleteSurely you can't mean to perversely immanentize the eschaton by dispensing shape with lion body and head of Anaal Nathrakh for whole family, sir!
Your link brought back many happy memories of family trips to Wales (although the singalongs could be a tad wearing).
ReplyDeleteThe old man has a lot to answer for.
What is it they say, There are rhythms only Dads can hear?
ReplyDeletePerhaps the world will end not with a bang but with an offkey singalong.
Though at this moment the New Climate is brewing up a rough beast of a storm out over the water and bearing down upon the event horizon...
Someone somewhere must be safe and warm. There in the not yet.
We can only hope.
ReplyDeleteThis is the last of this series (for now). Glad to be done with it. There's a feeling of having somehow missed something. Maybe a few poems get some way close.
i have to say, the codex necro is still one of my most favorite albums of forever..
ReplyDelete