nietzsche

oh over the
uneven rutted streets, the poor
streets of the shuddering
city, (a nervous-splendor city),
while the sirens cry from Lorelei stones in the empty
rivers,

it is

as if the high clouds were
calling out, cautionary at
best, in generalities saying:

"the great
philosophers should
all, (at times),

quarrel deeply,
with richard wagner,"
until as
deep as the uneven streets they,

the wide
philosophers, as broad as the
artic sea,

until
they stand in the
angry gray streets grandly
crying like the heavy church
bells, shuddering
in the clattered tone, of the iron bells,

hanging their empty
arms around the necks
of beaten horses,

wagner
sits about the pollution, the fields overlooking the
wide city, drowning in the
dust

of his offset elegance-

and
in the
dirty streets the dreaming horses
sleep,
sleep deadly still beneath the angry lash-

ocean-
eyed lonely men holding their hollow
necks, faces pressed,
pressed to their threadbare skin