This is Radio Free Byron on the short wave
broadcasting to the English shires: wake up.
We urge war against the west, against Fletcher;
the Maniots are the men for me, they will do the deed.
Wake up you boys and girls, you sneak careerists,
forget the English Bores co-option of Ashbery;
the discontinuous prose continues,
this is the big poem of right belief – immaculate.
That black speck veering across your sky space
above the town where you live,
riding the cold fronts off the map,
homing in, set at zero, is your death.
With this magnifying glass held in both hands
I burn sunspots on the calendar,
burn for canonic, burn for garland on your head,
so each day comes up fresh with a hole in it.