composite by Stephen Alsford, incorporating
caricatures by Edmund S. Valtman, portraits by Jesse B. and unknown authors, and photo of Earth by NASA.
| home page | list of works |
|
I write this record of an epoch past And leave it buried deep beneath; We were who strove, but stayed our welcome out, We were who, unknowing, spread the seed Of self-destruction – then upon our heads Let fall the price, the villein's brand. My hopes to futures turn instead, These exhortations understand! Far-flung freedom's future lies, Yet I see it phantom-wise. Kinsman of those distant plains, Where the reborn homeward came, Though you stand there wise and wild Still you see through eyes of child. Turn your thoughts toward the past, These my words were wrought to last. End: to wring from legends rails For travel; means: spin fairy-tales . . . Dark Amun the sun-burnt god Played with his children – his games were odd, For his rules waxed fresh with each new moon, Upon every whistle he blew a new tune. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of time Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit writhes 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to Dark Amun; Orb deprived by the orphaner. Though absent long, bacchus comes back soon With his pan-pipes: he is your arbiter. Casterix the pirate chief Crewed his ship with a pack of thieves. Sailing orders from a mouth that stank; Made those who groaned go walk the plank. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of time Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit writhes 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to Casterix; Orb deprived by the orphaner. See, blind faith! He is at his tricks; Illusions: these are your arbiter. Kandi Cow, the sacred she In saffron sari, to sit with the Three Offered uncles up as a sacrifice, Building stairs from skulls to reach paradise. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of change Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit strains 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and her tide's whiplash. Bow, braves,bow down to Kandi Cow; Orb deprived by the orphaner. Though the brahman bull is female now Her horns still gore: she is your arbiter. Teiton X the gross old man, Spat at the gods with a gun in his hand, But his flesh turned to jelly and his red heart, ice; Now his soul's in spirit and his body, spice. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of change Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit strains 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to Teiton X; Orb deprived by the orphaner. The people have but a single neck And his the axe; this is your arbiter. Gaddaflé the desert rat Gnawed on his children and he grew fat; Though his victuals fled, yet he wished them well, Calling "Come home truants, Daddy loves you still." Blow, winds, blow through the sands of peace Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit grieves 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to Gaddaflé; Orb proscribed by the orphaner. We are waiters all in his sad café, Where the maestro dines on our arbiters. All-Men-He, the cult's high priest, Who rode a barely-bridled beast, Hoarse though-called, thus it chanted weird And, whilst it pranced, nibbled at his beard. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of peace Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit grieves 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to All-Men-He; Orb deprived by the orphaner. Cult grows a subtle tendency Anarchic: such is your arbiter. Of Throne-Lord Moo, enough to say That he is gone – so let it stay. His unmastered wand conjures up a squall And his empty chair the wind fills with fools. Blow, winds, blow through the sands of time Waves to break upon the walls that crack; Though the flesh be willing, the spirit writhes 'Neath the tyrant's tongue and his tide's whiplash. Bow, braves, bow down to Throne-Lord Moo; Orb deprived by the orbitor. From beyond the grave still his geni spews Those words you worship as your arbiter. Len and Sal, the pantheon's source, First men / last men, well they taught Where they found the eager ear, Where the twitching turned to hear. Took the sperm and egged it on – Some vile, slouching ape they spawned; Called it Saviour of its race, Dressed the beast with kingly grace. Strove to shoot the Name on high, Thus to fulfill the prophecy; With their bows of burning brass Each drew aim. They missed their marks. Thus my pen and I respond To the needs events dictate; History is not overfond, Whilst, unfettered, satire hates. Words may scathe and words may scar But fables far from tyrants may not be; Heroes that the world needs never are Heroes, when blind eyes are forced to see. |
| (1980) |
|
composite by Stephen Alsford, incorporating caricatures by Edmund S. Valtman, portraits by Jesse B. and unknown authors, and photo of Earth by NASA. |
| Created: November 17, 2014. | © Stephen Alsford |