(no subject)
From a poem by Erin Burley:
These are our faces and these are our judgment halls where our hearts
streaming such lithium landscapes tip the scales leaving us silent stoned
empty in eternity.
And the judgment is this:
Man is God's poetry----
and He is weeping among the pulsars and atomic meadows in the kingdoms
of the chrysalis of chemical christenings as humanity rinses the dark
brilliance of jungles and installs the shriekings of the nuclear
constellations in the supernatural dawn sculptured into lunacies of light by
neon hands.