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The Prophet


The day I fell asleep­, the lights went on
in studio six.  Behind my lids, miles of cable 
and gaffer tape twisted around Herakles
preparing hydra three ways as Hera criticised 
his lack of sauce.  Two fallen stars turned to boys 
on a staging ground; a city wall was raised, razed,  
dusted and fed to wolves with crossed eyes.
I rolled and the world turned with me.  The princess puzzled 
isoperimetrically and someone found the salt.  
No, there is no room in this dish for an elephant, 
unless poached.  Beware, the idols are burning.  
Here in sleep, I am divine and diviner.  It has happened:
it will happen.  Myth and man are no mystery.  
You turn your back, fiddle and the world catches fire.  
Where are your roses now?  Nobody will have you.  You are evicted,
extracted, amazed.  I offer you my vision; you cast it aside.  
Tomorrow I will wake to blindness, rise, and tread my eyes
into the dirt.  

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