Home Is Where The Harpic Is

Abraxas is curled up in the corner/ sniggering idiot child/
dreamer of uncertain destinies/ scheming in cretinous
density/ the cream rising up, as it must...

Abraxas is curled up
like a watchspring about to be unsprung/ 
like an explosion waiting to happen/ 
like a hydrogen bomb buried underneath the pentagon...

He waves a wand/ weaves a picture of smiles over 
my hypnotised face.

Everything is going to be okay, he says, serenity comes
through travelling the middle way. 

He washes an aquarelle 
of trappist lies and Zen conundrums
across the dirty floor tiles in my kitchen
and I am sinking/ out of synch/ a victim/
unfolding...

The subtext dissolves/ taking with it, all underpinning.  
Desire is no more, ambition is no more, reason for being
is no more.  The concrete under my feet
has turned to sand... and here then comes the ninth wave/
a monstrous motherfucker/ carrying with it all knowledge
and all certainty, like so many broken shells;
and you know, just as I know,
the riptide is going to drag us under.