A long haired angel in a barber's chair,
I clutch a mug of rich design.
Neck cocked and belly bent, a pipe between my teeth,
I grace the folding fog with a smoke of my own.
Like steaming shit in a hot pigeon coop,
a thousand putrid dreams within me rise,
and sometimes my heart is a sacrificial oak
whose blood runs golden where a branch was pried.
Gulping each dream
with thirty or forty mugs of beer,
I stand to satisfy that bitter urge;
and divine am I as any God of cedar or incense
as I piss a wondrous rainbow, long and far,
to grace the pompous ferns of earthly heaven.