2016 02 21
These open doors I cannot pass through now
reveal secret code of numbers disguised
as princess who dresses like noble cow
while filling our glasses with sacred milk.
We cannot remember who wore mask last
to play crippled king on stage of desire
so you find me swinging from tallest mast
while ship of state sails into storm of fire.
I paint your face huge on ten thousand doors
that all lead back to garden of delight
while we play, dressed as wolves, on misty moors
because I invented that Book of Right.
Every god whose soul is preserved in tales
of sacred scriptures chanted in dark hall
were once living humans who lost their tails
so we sit and drink wine on broken wall.
When you find my skull in ancient Wych Elm,
from which you weave wicker baskets to hunt
eggs of birds and snakes in dark shadowed vale,
gather to sing by lake that fairies haunt.
This apple tree grows from my broken heart
though my horses run on wind-dancing plain,
so drink apple juice in Delphic moonlight
while you read my story in Book of Right.