Noon End

Boatman to the underworld, we can value yor perspective.
Remember tho you will never speak for the main stream.
You are tubed between over and outer realms, respectively,
So how could you aspire to be seal of the land, our bubble?

Galleon after galleon of crude, unleaded wall walkers,
Middlebrow conformists to venalism, hiders: they're
Your clan, down in the crossing lanes, border surfaces.
They say when universes they touch, it only means bangs.

Your breath, then, is everything even death cannot digest,
Something that will never be compressed and born again.
Yr word is precious in the finer markets they call perverse.
It takes a special kinda stud with a steady punty and blow

To take on what you've got already and just fuckin' row
With no attempt to show us how to buzz about our targets
Or weigh a lamb, a daughter, in some zero-fault vacuum;
Time for souls to find you at the noon end of a pendulum.