New York Years, or The End of the World

�

My love, I will squander no more time:

Some sweet senorita’s tweet,

A raven moon romancing the street….

In the city, I stopped and ate a lime.

My life is merely a chemistry set,

A prebiotic soup, a Mars sunset.

Hydrogen banging off of helium --

No more frivolous trips to the Met.

The stars line up to meet a rebel king.

My regrets heat up to 10,000 degrees,

Releasing angels and storming seas,

Leaving me no more reason to sing.

The coffee-shop anarchists falsely adore

Themselves and the Met and more, much more.

I can squander time no more, my love.

We are too close to the moans of Babylon’s whore.

Modern times are wasting and fall away numb,

The clock towers of the town are struck dumb.

The Whore of Babylon has come, has come (Beat the drum),

The Whore of Babylon is come.

We have a choice to love men or kill men,

It is in the desperate eyes of dismembered children.

A battle of angels has come, has come (Beat the drum),

The Whore of Babylon is come.

�