Let's anoint
only what's beside the point,

and happiness,
the only high art here, stress

upon this earth,
where nothing else matters; where each birth

bears anew
a solemn promise, a delivered view,

but each event
stamps us more and more irrelevant.


Can St. Paul,
savage with certainty, tell us all?

He raised us with
a mindless faith, a mutilated myth,

so that with Paul
we, savage also with certainty, learned nothing at all,

and even Jesus,
who was much more, couldn't release us,

for the truths He gives
have their unrelenting negatives.


So our myth and our science
usher us raving into irrelevance,

as art, our caretaker,
prepares us piously to meet our Maker,

an old Ghost,
a duplicitous parasite. We were its host.

That awful clatter
you hear now doesn't matter, doesn't matter

at all. So here in the sun
let the undone be undone.