William Blake - Blake’s Broken Vision

I quake

In the wake

Of Blake’s broken vision.

I mourn

For the sake

Of sweet Albion’s oblivion.

I take

Newton’s sharp dividing-compass

Marking arcane points.

They split

The divine arc.

Man makes

Laws and understanding

For God’s sake.

The fake

Jehovah clown

Casts his unfounded wrath down

On Job, poor sod,

And all those awe-struck around,

To some vengeful trumpet sound.

Adam is banished,

Paradise is lost ground.

Fuck’s sake.

Puck,

Oberon, Titania,

Watch beautiful beguiling fairies

Duck, swirl, prance

Spin and whirl.

Slowly advancing

In their circular dance.

Against a lush-wooded backdrop

Of washed-out pasty hues.

Satan shakes

His vast scaly tail,

Calls up all his legions.

The number of this Beast is 666.

Clickety-click.

Apocalyptic.

Blake’s bile sticks.

Urizon,

The Ancient of Days.

Dishevelled and manic.

Sublime demiurge

Crouching forth

Out of a sun-throne

Against a bleak horizon.

The Great Architect

Measuring mass and morals

To an inch.

And beyond.

Self-portrait,

Intensity. Pain. Fear.

Surveying his shattered sphere,

Nauseous spittle seeps.

Eyes bulging, spraining.

Vitreous humour pressed

Out from his straining brain.

More than a hint of clear

Supreme madness.

The tiger brightly flaming.

So we partake

Of Blake’s transubstantiations.

New worlds and mythologies.

Infernal creations

Where Beelzebub

And his diabolical angels

Dominate

His hellish imaginations.

Again I quake

In the powerful wake

Of Blake’s insane broken vision.

I mourn again and feel the pain

For the sake

Of sweet Albion’s oblivion.