we can not live with the monks
for our harps keep them up at night
our gift is fire from a dying ember
a flash between broken lines
feathering the trance
of 1,000 suns
we bemoan Saturn as it approaches
no shame whatsoever!
we are that planet spinning in ecstasy
we are furry hedonic priests
dancing in lush bulbous attention
in primordial soup kitchens nightly
we are so many ancestral visions
pressed to the lips of emptiness
we also fade away
no shame at all!
we are sincere as animals
even in the robes of monks
but we are not monks
for our harps keep us up at night
and our gift is a dying ember
given lovingly by fire
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