The Spoonbill Generator

Dreaming of a Swamp and the Holy River

As we starve in our secret Alaskas

Ignoring the news of the flood

That is drowning the road to Damascus

And daubing the city with blood.

We shall don the disguise of Quixote

And empty the coffers of lead

While our buttonholes, primed with peyote

Were all that prophets had said

Will ravish the quick and the dead.

As we reach for the tabula rasa

Yearning for absence of mind

Reading from "Eyeless in Gaza"

In a version unknown to the blind

We shall finish our hymn to the holy

With an anagram garnered from Hell

In the hope that the martyrs die slowly

Each wish being wide of the well

Their prayers being drowned by the bell

As we sink through a mire of our making

And swallow a mouthful of mud

As we dream the half-dreams of the waking

And the nightmares that course through the blood

We kowtow to each brazen Mikado

In the hope of a new set of clothes

The cast-offs of Beckett or Bardot

In fashions that everyone loathes

In garish greens, yellows aand mauves.

Now we know who has stolen our future

Our pistols are ready and primed:

We sunder the temporal suture

Where the rampant hysteria climbed

We go over the ramparts to glory

Though our heartbeats are stiller than stone

Foreseeing the end of the story

Traced out on each withering bone

When all that's revealed has been shown


Contributors: Roland, P, TG, Bop
Poem finished: 21st February 1997