Karamazov

Smerdyakov threw himself
down the cellar staircase
into a rare darkness,
with some deathwise angel
escaping as white saliva
from his convulsing face.
His was not an embrace
of the bloodied earth,
no hieromonkish love.
There was a mutant bloom
of thought enrooted there
behind his crawling eyes,
something black and silent
beyond the abattoir gates.
In that dark seraphic fall
the blood flower grew.
A nothing was in nothing.
Spittle like ectoplasm flew.
He gave an otherworldly cry
like a night hawk's boom,
the world shivered under it
as at a feathered spirit
passing over in the rain.
Fyodor Pavlovich was woken.
He would not sleep again.

Dylan is Fed to the Dogs

Down the street the dogs are barking
And the day is getting dark

The day is getting the dog down
And the dark street is barking

The dog is barking down the dark
The day dogs the bark down the street

The stark day greets the dark
The band stay down the street

Dark is down the day is dark
The dark is regretting the day

The street is a dark bog
The stray dogs are betting

Dark stray dogs gown the dork
The gay bard downs the grog

The dogs down the bar bark
The dork and the bard are kings

Down streets the dogs a barking band
Down the bar the kings a-downing grog

And the dark Gods drown
A thousand miles behind