Pain day sky beauty die black joy

love empty day life die pain passion

joy black day hate beauty die life

joy ache empty day pain die love

passion joy black light



And if God is dead what am I,

a fleck of dirt on the wing of a fly

hurtling to earth

through a hole in the sky



And if Warhol's a genius, what am I,

a speck of lint on the penis of an alien

buried in gelatin

beneath the sands of Venus



Time sun hurt trust peace dark rage

sad white rain sun anger hurt soft

trust night rage rain white hope dark

sacred sun time trust hurt rage anger

rain white light



And if a bird can speak, who once was a dinosaur,

and a dog can dream; should it be implausible

that a man might supervise

the construction of light

the construction of light



Pain day sky beauty black die joy

love empty time sun hurt trust peace

dark rage sad white rain hate anger

hope sacred passion life night ache soft light