FANCY
we have (all of us)
our very own fancy
for apocalypse
projecting on the world
our own thirst and fear
of ending (Oh what a strange
species we
are indeed!)
yes, what thrill is the final
scene
if you perform it alone
stage empty, auditorium deserted,
is there not supposed to
be resonance, sweet slash
bittersweet connection
and then there are
those most philosophical
of warriors, most warlike
of philosophers
there music too, will shake
you like no other
between such highs and lows
to which, if that we not enough,
we must add the crime
of psychoanalysis
one in particular
Leo-sign showman
reading from a single patient
the brutal future history of
nation
and a species
it did decide it had done with
no schadenfreude here
just special kind of
go
when the revelation that
we are not gods
we aspire to be
gets us plunging into
final destruction
tumbling
of power
from its throne
and power with its exit clause,
its played-through endgames
knows
(knows all too well
all too well)
always space for
last laugh
throw of those
diabolically secret dice
at the death at the death
yes, that gotterdammerung word
nutshells that best





