a psalm for a silicon stone age

The sky illumines an unearthly pink
as Apollo sinks toward the snow-tinged hills
giving his watch over to the street-lights
and the not yet visible canyon-pocked moon,
which will reverend old magnet
pull the bats out of their caves
and the moths out of the bush
to haunt humanity's electric sentinels:
garish spectres of faded bestial sceptres

In the sausage-laden, wine-bathed temples of art,
fat-walletted burghers slide around each other
in a semi-silent gear-smiling machination
(oiled by fear-clutched devils' script)
to display their ornate woolen canvases
and the cruel Botox sneers
of their handsome Reinhard Heydrich masks

In the grave-yard
asound with a symphonic cacophany of crows,
wondering feet wander
from cryptic script to script,
pondering the road less travelled,
and the lessons of the roads travelled

Beneath the marble and unwiltable roses,
it's the philosophers whose skeletal rest
is most fitful,
for the "inverted world" above
so regal in matters of how
bows to even the primal in questions
of why...
although salty old earthen ministers
turn to see how casually and prolifically
the age lies
and how legally it steals

Blow out your candles,
you civil, star-awed old roses;
the world today knows not
your subtle, give-and-take ways;
For the denizens of this digital day,
the night is but a time
to "do deeds the day
would quake to look upon,"
and the mornings only of interest
as espresso-fueled markers
of the meat-seeking progress of Usura
(sanctified from a thousand big-screen pulpits
from renowned mouths that never frown...)
all white-washed with a cult
of saccharin saintly sentimentality

Blow out your candles:
Voltaire, Gallileo,
Jefferson, Rosseau,
or see this depraved new world
from your seed
somehow unnaturally grown