Your after dinner sleep did not hold
Dreams of pressure chambers,
Nor heaps of gold teeth,
Nor drones striking at six.
The window sill is empty,
The owner choked in some eastern cellar.
Despairing of Weltuntergang, you fled
Into classics and the christian womb,
A futile leap of faith to save the wreckage.
And, yes, we still need to be:
Saved. And, no, we cannot.
The Tiger is toothless,
All Gold extracted,
The Womb disfigured,
Lord Phallos shamed.
So, there we are, circling prickly pear at six.
Experimenting on our minds at seven,
Disenchantment colouring our sullen pursuits at eight,
Visions are available at a price at nine,
Drowsy housewives watching porn at ten.
And, no, you can't:
Reanimate this graceful
Cavernous cat chimera.