Lunar Wombs

Beat is not in tea shades
Not in peasant wanderings
Or the singular glare of a
Jugular attachment
Or libertine circles
Its in hope, and intellect
Illumination
Light of the world
At the end of a cigarette
Lights of the world
Drawing lines of fire down
The Wahakme way, to lunar wombs
Forgetting the agencies and agents
Of Americas own sleeper cells,
Fire bread crumbles to a spleen of distended angst.
Municipal, alone and pretended into
Cold water sweat
Whisky in the church, splashed on the
Pavement, fences barbed our way
To Calvary where the copper men
Came with harlequin senses of long dead Gods.