Hang On

They'll be comin'
into our sacred grove, barging
banging, china

everywhere. Tables tipped
sculptured minimals shattered
into atoms, black boots

on necks, curved blades
taunting sedentary flesh.
It won't matter then

whether you loved Pound, or
thought he was a fascist
schizophrenic

whether you thrilled
when Allen sang
angelheaded hipsters burning

for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo or
vomited a projectile fag!

You won't need to remove
your headphones, you'll feel
a sea of stallion hooves

thrumming up
through the floorboards.