He saw the remains of a broken diety and hated.
He, the Ethos,
(Or so he believed often enough)
Began to run, to sweat in the heat
Of fashioning something different.
In the strength of his hands he sang;
Jealously, the painful passion ,
How others could go on…
The violence found, the full force of pieces
Scorched and scattered
Playing against the light of early morning.
The divinity of all, the impatience of many,
Stared at these fragments, calling with sobs:
“Lux vitae, temporum magistra,
Vi ta momoriae, nuncia vetustatis!”
To someone not there.
Said the Russian , “Most people, even the wicked,
Are much more naive and simple-hearted than we suppose.”
Listening and knowing,
Sitting in a dark corner pondering the task,
The quest before the lie,
Veracity instead of illusion,
His mind becoming one with Shelley.
Around him everything lost;
Buried under the weight of a bar
And the consistency of drink.
Coarse pleasure in the mud next to Pim.
Exaggerated in moments of desire
Exaggerated , finally, into a dark resentment.
Ahead of everyone now.