my there there fire comet

Silence fire comet!
You speak too much.
Burning an enchanting riff through my bones,
Always shaking, bucking my balls with a flat whip of panic.
A panic of no immediacy.
We used to wait.
We used to wait for it.
Now we bawl and screech through life's alleys,
Blind shortcuts full of ravens and bloodless jewels.

Or you could spend your dimes on a mouth organ and a banjo,
Buy a wooden sea-craft from a fisherman in Samoa and
Drift like a salt-drugged troubadour through wispy waves,
Singing like a newly haloed hell-hound while gulping fresh pineapple.
This would be one slice of our imagination.
This would be a place to die.

Pretend its over. Pretend it hasn't begun.
Pretend there's no prime el presidente swimming in gold.
No tortured children.
No fear.

Or you could capture your imagination in a net of hope and feed it to your soul.
Your withering, dithering, slime-filth slithering soul,
Which would spark up like a fire comet and electrify everything,
Sear everything with fierce hope and rally it to the children,
And arm them with knives of corn sheathed in cow's butter.
Butter that drips down their fingers and fertilises the whooping earth
Until it creaks with progress and loses its nerve.

But the earth is not on fire,
There's no need to evacuate.