Is it madness? Is it news?
Is the whole world doing it for views?
Come, put on your iron shoes
and let’s go hunting faeries:

up the aerie mountain,
down the rushing glen,
we dare not go a-hunting,

fearing that moment when,

the phone that listens to your words,
and knows your precise location,
hears whatever it is that finally leads to
your cancellation.

We’re all increasingly sure-ifying
That everything is purifying
(Unless, of course, somebody’s lying
But that could never happen.)

Still: it’s an unironic cornucopia
To live in an honest-go-gosh dystopia;
I’m genuinely not all mad;

As Worldly tension’s weirdly mounting
I could have studied damn Accounting.
If Dervishes are all our minds
I’ll be the last to close the blinds.

Bring the Chaos! Goddes Ma’at
Will separate That from That Which Is Not
And whilst to Tiamat I tip my hat,
We’ve Marduk on our minds.

Look: It’s fine. Do as thou wilt.
But there’s a difference between concrete and silt
And we’re worried that what’s been spilt
is not blood
but brains.

___

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