Instructions for Dementia

Call the moon a round scar left By a wound of self-discovery Upon a mystery whose sleep Produces men and worlds. Say that sunlight barely Surpasses blackness, in comparison With unknown lights whose first Intimations would shrivel the earth In the least part of a second. Cry that beauty is a dream-- Intact, exclusive, undismayed-- Made by men to hoodwink Their woeful lack of firmness and command. Say that religions are infants of hope Precociously wearing the robes of adults And blowing trumpets to impress The pessimistic minds of men. Claim that one phrase--the last aesthetic step--- Takes a ceremony of line and color And rigorously visits The disguarded souls of men. Stroke the smoothly rubbery Garentees of flesh, With all its misled screams, And then, with ease, change instantly To an ascetic hermit who watched your acts. O spurn the shout of consistency Floating from every disguised Dungeon known to men, And be as inconsiderate And yet as secretly careful As the wind from which men hide In prone and stationary structures. Be demented, and be glad That men will never worship your name.”