Urged rumble at cochlear dawn:
A multi-headed virtual army
wielding Pitchfork, chanting atop a backbeat.
“Doggone criminals,” mutters the Demiurge,
the Injustice League foil to Shelley’s
bull goose legislator
burrowed, honeycombed
in the undercommons of a lax bro
cosmos.
Of your “Many”
your Class Struggle Avatars
your Elected Representatives
here at the Nancy Reagan psychic hotline
(“This call may be monitored—
please wait, please hold”)
with whom do you wish to speak?
With those who are
as from the heads of gods
approaching perihelion
and who are thus
in all the senses to which consciousness has been as yet made to refer
woke.
Since we came to get down,
and since we are as gods,
As Brand says,
we might as well get good at it.
So, in place of what is:
joined with those who have been at these tasks all along
we must build it, conjure it—at the very least, dream it—here, now,
hidden from the sense of those who rule,
the utopia in which none may act as master.
Trance-Scripts 