A Work

I swear to whatever god will end us
Do not definite article what I do
The smite
The light
The trite

Each a horn of a many-pronged devil
Ahura Mazda's Dedalus on a Dublin morning
A matronly funeral, modernism's marshes
I paint portraits: the artist is not a young man

Nor shall Zarathustra understand 
The nature of demons or values
That marketplace heralded death on a string
While an old saw hews and spews and blues 
Instrumental, jazzicle, the tongue is stuck to its frozen trumpet
Put it to utility and usefulness will make a mission out of any of us

Rather? But? How, ever, can?
So many wrestles 

Dances across barren and fortified and fertile landscapes
Prepared to make effort
To compile a future
Out of presents past
Without a the in sight

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