Failure to a failed state, erring heir to generations
Father to son, three and four, wicked contribulations
Silent in one but loud in the next, vouchsafed by name-trust and bone
And sin haps’ greed or envy or lust, this man in the corner alone
Father lies to himself in stupor and stump compounding rings maketh that thick tree
We can know now–neither why nor how, on what grounds he make his decree
Na’er more unconscious a man nor butterfly more blissful, then he who tethers tightly to thinking low and wishful
Son of Great Atlas without purpose, an addict’s needle bent gainst’ hard skin
Rage and roll and toil and troll, this ship amidst crosswind.
A picture painted, not the thing in itself, gaze fixed across the room
Bound for fearful lashing! crash the gong and echo the tomb