Jack Benign’s Beau’s Way
I am a tumour but benign
A growth despoiled of why
Ancient blind will, heaving
Extruding its keen innards
For the scrutiny of the mob
Tous semblables, innocents
What design had you or I
What principle or end, eh?
Wherein was knit my brow
Or your thick useless head?
Perhaps the Tower watchers
See, lest all be dark abroad
The sleeve I cut beneath him
Left a sage’s sleep unstirred
While this butterfly-knot waker
Quaffed young dandelion wine
From out lunisolar apertures
That let light pickle eternity
So spend we our kind of life
In this bardo of becoming
Whatever we are, alighting
In suburban forest clearings
Signs bourgeoisified, marking
The ghost of value over price
