Paperchains

I recognise the core,
Floating beneath the everchanging surface,
The different dream dialects shifting into
Pseudo-nostalgic alphabet soups,
Spelling out anagrams that are moved by
Ouija magic – plucked from light ether:
Oh these messages from ice-blue ghosts.

It's there,
It's always there,
At the back of your mind,
The map of destiny,
We know how it will end up
But we pat it down,
Pat it down,
Pat the motherfucking daisies down,
Push them back into their seeds!

We let those wonderland dreams
Flitter on the backs of hummingbird wings,
Let the mysteries stay for a while
Until we can use more than 10% of our brains,
Until Darwin has resurrected,
Until religion kills our bodies and souls,
Until all the flowers are demoted from their duty
As gramophones or conduit-televisions for God's
Manifestation.