Owl song scraping through 
an open window
and a stabbing in town just this morning
you chant 
                  chant
                             chant
 
voices from the Vedas 
elope with soma 
your leering lotus 
ocean-breathing in the flickers
of black candles.

Your lung a sudden boat on hard rapids
your brain a glove of light.
Is sin the point?
Is sin the point
when each one of us 
is Satan?

Seven billion Satans believing they are god.

Pure as art they sing
the songs inside your head and
there’s chaos in those verses.

The anarchy of their dead is atomic but
There are no circles
There are no circles
As above
so below.

And in the half night you find
the hours like a chorus 
In the orchestra 
of time and you yourself
mutilated by the saints
devoured by aspects painted 
on twin pillars.

Meditating
in a ‘stop hitting yourself’ way
attempting
to reach a clearing
in the solar-system.

But there’s been a stabbing in town and the police
have the place
locked down.

There’s no path home to Saturn.