Fugue
in the fountains of a geometric paradise
the vines spread their winding cantenary
while conjugated rarities
vie with all the pretty things on legs
and so it came to be that
Gounod was messing with Bach's wife Maria
and in the marriage-bed of music
they play a lay somewhere between
beauty and the fugue
what became of the many suns that briefly reflect
in the faceted eyes of genius
what became of the many gardens of the heavens
are they lain in sheets like shales
compressed in thin transgression of their authorship
with all our dim torch
we seek the codex of the lost archetype
in ancient formularies that sung schematic customs
and before encoded in the manuscript of cells
the codex of the ape
some believed no man was born from ape
and some believe we are the only paradise
and some believe time is drawn uneven
whose clock is marvel and the heroine
and some believe in nothing
it is rare to find a pure belief
for most are strained like waters through a shale of culture
cluttered like so many fugue's that trumpet
like a herald in your every mornings new