Friday, October 27, 2006
You Don't Hear the Word Jagoff Much These Days: Day Warny Fob
How to Live. What to Do
Last evening the moon rose above this rock
Impure upon a world unpurged.
The man and his companion stopped
To rest before the heroic height.
Coldly the wind fell upon them
In many majesties of sound:
They that had left the flame-freaked sun
To seek a sun of fuller fire.
Instead there was this tufted rock
Massively rising high and bare
Beyond all trees, the ridges thrown
Like giant arms among the clouds.
There was neither voice nor crested image,
No chorister, nor priest. There was
Only the great height of the rock
And the two of them standing still to rest.
There was the cold wind and the sound
It made, away from the muck of the land
That they had left, heroic sound
Joyous and jubilant and sure.
The sun is freaked because she is on fire! I decided to make her face like a pig's because pigs are the animals that most want to be set on fire-- all day, every day--because they know they smell so fucking fine when they are burning up like that.