No Greater Truth

We were the furies who would conquer the world,
as modern as tomorrow,
as outdated as one last attempt at immortality,
Icarus who dared to
bask in the sun's discarded stretchmarks
and now fends off scavengers.
His feathers still hold sentimental value.

God, a surrealist painter
whose tools are carried on men's backs,
the overspill of light trampled into mud
(making clay out of sweat,
so thick it could drown babies).
It's disease like this that returns civilization
(helpless) to his hands.

The original point of reference
is now surrounded by a radius of fools
who try to pattern snowflakes out of entropy,
men who have the hearts of children
and the minds of beasts.
At the end of this generation
it will be the women who curl up and smile:
'it must be pleasure if
no one is watching and we are still
feeling it. It must be pride if
we have nothing more to hide.'
It has all been hidden, in brow-creases and cleavages,
(the secret meaning of life)
pinned up like billboards, but only in our sleep.

The passport to youth costs a
measly few bills -
we could buy the souls of millions
who would rather be hung up with support hoisery -
it's no use selling the rich their own lives;
they wouldn't recognize the stars
unless they stopped glittering.
This nocturnal display of wealth is the only substance
safe to inhale in great amounts.