The Ideal Found Wanting

The Ideal Found Wanting I’m sick of clownery and Owlglass tricks;
Damn the whole crowd of you! I hate you all.
The same, night after night, to powdered stall
To sweating gallery, your faces fix
In flux an idiot mean. The Apteryx
You worship is no victory; you call
On old stupidity, God made to crawl
For tempting with world-wisdom’s narcotics. I’ll break the window through my prison! See,
The sunset bleeds among the roofs; comes night,
Dark blue and calm as music dying out.
Is it escape? No, the laugh’s turned on me!
I kicked at cardboard, gaped at red limelight;
You laughed and cheered my latest knockabout.

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