Sweep the gate
And fire the steed
In whatever memory
The door:
Pry open the box
Wherein you’ve kept the rebel insignia
Not red but yellow
Dragons
The dragon is a printer
Sleeping beneath Krakow
He prints in Dresden and Gutenberg
His steam belches
The corridor of sages
My dearest neighbor
I invite you to war
All our kings are dead
Atop the throne sit ghosts
Their voices you hear in your head
Inside your living room
The crystal ball shows you their faces
Faking life
King Abdul Aziz
Weighing 400 pounds
Was able to perform
His ancestral dance
For Chevron oil men
His 500 daughters
Decked in gold
I think we can manage to erect
A small banner in the street
And invite the young men over
For a celebration
Of call it what you like
Of Cathay
Sleeping
Under our terrible spell
Living in ruins
Ruled over by monsters
Who look like men
Our warrior code
South they call it Mapuche
Bushido
To look the wizard in the eye and speak
Turn his golems to dust
Find the men behind them
And set them aflame
