Beyond the cusp of man’s eternal bough,
On that curving lens where all women sow,
Hangs the Man, imbued with vines, with our brow
And dripping yolk, frowning before the glow
Of each Sun and Moon; His humour is still,
The Charity and Vanity force pulls
All gas and teeth to his vast divine thrill;
The globes inherent before Mother culls,
Arteries and branches sling from his neck
And the blind crowd, roaring from shattered hulls
Cough up blood on the Man’s black furnished deck.
A makeshift cavern splits the horizon
And that senseless mind, hanging, seethes as one….