we lie decumbant
achilles tendons slit
eyes plucked like strawberries
on the first morning of summer's break
we bask like corpses on a bank of ganga
'neath the majestic horns of a crescent sun
drilling into the obese gut of heaven,
which ruptures, like a dam, out of it flows a mist:
the fog is so thick we carve figurines out therefrom
in bhang-haze, soma-drunk,
we breathe into that which we worship
we meditate in remembrance
upon the cranium of the world;
remember, hearken, the highest form of art
that we ever developed and set in motion:
the holy question ignites with the night:
is omnipotence a just a failed theorem?
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