Survive the Night

The day will buzz, a bee inside the hive,

our sweet enigma,

                              honey dripping slow

and stinging, earthy as rebirth.

                                                  Survive

the night, I say, when stars emit a glow

so feeble we forget disaster’s root

in them,

                and lunatics pick up the tune

the damned can dance to, oozing from the moon.

                                  _____

We bash our skulls on darkness, squeeze art brut

from dreams.

                      Our instruments might loll unplayed,

or trill like frogs, then wail like banshees.

                                                                    She

or he—the angel incubus—will see

to that.

            My books, my crude tools, me: all laid

out like a mummy and his ruins deep

within a scarab-scuttled tomb of sleep.