The Avenging Son
The city is burning. The fountains are dry.
But this you must have known,
Dressing again for the games.
The weight of it on your head:
Time but stone from stone reclaims.
Blood still greases the wheel
That ground a bronze bull into steel.
CHORUS:
So...what'll you take me forA frayed, blood-basted tendon
Reflecting on what you've done?
A lunatic preaching doom,
Or the avenging son?
A pennon wedged in a lipless grin
That flails a naked eye to clumsy lust
And that half-naked crowd to cheers
Until a cringing clown sings,
"Oh my God, take me home."
Where lions disgorge a fountain,
A woman and man entwine, and laughing,
They sway across a cobblestone square,
His skin a sun-patined olive
The soft effusion of her hair
CHORUS
But scrutinize them more closely:
Their flashing eyes and their perfect teeth.
At what whetstone were those canines ground?
Can you see the skull beneath?
But never mind: they're happy.
Wouldn't you be if you were me?
But if I concede this moment,
In stone I conceive an age, a gesture
The last collapsing stars will repeat.
Against that you weigh this wet love
That fades with tumescence and heat?
CHORUS
The city burns under a ceiling of ash
Known as sufficient
To render wonders from a garage.
You'll have your moment too:
I still have faith in you.
If you're all there is, you'll be all we've been,
And since you need a place to begin,
Why not start with original sin?
CHORUS