The Ages, Part II

The oracles stopped—
waste was the way of ages forgone,
now the great shape of the endless cosmos
seemed a thing unable to contain,
and Satan’s demesne like a pearl within the
mother’s centre of creation,
in time would suffer its own
heat death,
though cold,
and vastly more violent given
the litany of little barbed things the bipedal pans
had thought into existence—
vice, rage, rape,
the stake.
Spirit was a thing invented,
spliced and reintegrated,
with fervid poet’s hands crafted
to make man owner of his folly—
see his animal environment—
jute nets, broken teeth, middens
more and greater than the centres
dreamt by goat-like devils,
that would instruct—sophistication—
and break his back in the highest
labour meant for him—magnificence.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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