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
Questions
Anger
Sadness
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
Roman Ryan 