Wayward street stretching trafflicght haze instead of sun, your breath attacks cohesion.

Your bombing run propaganda designed for solitude and graves – that erupt on knowing proof – will crash to the steamroller.

You will wail your drunks, your sobbing families, your suit and tie salt of the earth madder than you or I daughters and your semen of deficit, lobotomy, control and the contrived.

Street, you know Ishmael the prophet of yesterday inverse, born of renaissance parched down the middle revealing a bellyful of secrets, keeps wisdom from war, is the swan youth!

Street, in your shipwreck day you know Ishmael, you are together in the running hope! You will practice art, give visions of life, miscreant faltering since the cradle life, furious alto groans of music or soul or liberty or proof! – Proof whipped on beech steps before the clown religion! – Proof muttered, shouted on precipice terrace roof! Proof of love!

Ishmael wore diamonds, dreamt science minded crimson from the moon.

Ishmael wore green mud speaking fornication under consent of wood ships that never were.

Ishmael wept for birth after birth, the language of parasite fact, the inevitable saviours, doomed renaissance. – Birth after birth, comfort in numbers, spherical, cyclical silence!

Take comfort street! The bomb is a deterrent! War is fought on children’s graves for your protection! To protect the lie, the wallet, the illusion! To protect the house of diamonds sky from proof!

Ishmael is youth, the apocalyptic changing nature of street in eternal rejection of passed down submission.

Ishmael is youth, the mocked jester antagony knowing now is eternal, refusing dead verse to write his own with fire.

Street Ishmael is your saviour but you steal his visions with white robes because he is against belief, afraid of the wolf, a disciple staring mad at inscriptions of constellation bliss left in chalk on your sidewalk.

In feathers Ishmael crashes down the asylum steps.

I give him my hand but the scars on his head tell me he can’t see me anymore.

Still I know him, the prophet of yesterday’s absorbing voice inverse, meat of equality made tender.

He is not a crop crafted to contrive.

I weep for him, wait for him in Florence – bitterly know his renaissance.

I wait for proof. – Ishmael holds my imaginary hand in his stare, leaves behind only ghosts and footsteps and wolves and visions and the lamb.

Copyright © 2003 Oisín Breen. No reprints or distribution of any kind sort in any form in this or any other known universe or dimension or medium without my express permission.