They burn effigies
And whisper behind church halls
Self righteous and sly,
They tattoo themselves
With violent lullabies
And laugh through silence,
In strange times like these
They rise up from their gutters
And rustle their hate.
They call
The spittle that gathers
At the corners of his mouth
The sluice of true brilliance;
It shimmers
Under stage lights
And it glitters
Like bravery’s charm,
It glimmers all silver
Like fresh ice on car windows
And it twinkles in the mirrors
Of the busy city bars
Absorbing night.
Feverish with words,
Surfing strange ancient atoms
And watching patterns emerge
He is a winter sharp babel,
Every voice crystal clear,
The playwright now chosen
To relay all our fears
Through the golden humming zeligs
Devoid of any peers.
You are golden
Like the mysteries
Of a lost, lonely jungle,
A photographed crowd
At a Victorian ball,
A heatwave in spring,
The laughter of wild animals,
A winding ancient path
That leads to a fortified town –
The clown we once knew
Is the new king we crown.
Slacker Shack