Words swarm, a halo of thorns, dove-claws and devils, gaunt choiring whores. Paradise so petrified. Streetlights bloom ever through rain-drops of iron. And rainbows in oil, and riots of noise, glass castle horizons, all speak through my voice. The bastard son of creation. Oh, heaven! Oh, heaven! Oh, lambs forsaken. I crack smiles on crooks. A flower splits stone. Or am I the stone, and grace the gold rose? Grace breaks our frames, lead slugs on bone. And glory’s the beacon in microphone chrome. Oh, I’m a microphone! I’m a microphone! I know! I know all shames and joys, oh! Martyr the fool. Repent human truth. North of old Eden I’m forgetting, too. Green tea in the mornings. Whole magnums of champagne. Water all day. This thirst unslaked. Outside! The window’s ice like diamonds, the snow off-blue. I keep the fire all day. For inside is just cinders, ash, and dross. I never knew how quiet it could get here at the top of the world. Aurora borealis—so far from the slums of Shaolin. Fake your own death and let the new songs begin. Words whisper. Sermons sleep on blank white sheets of ice so clean.