The Goat's End

This is the end of the goat poets,
I ponder,
while the sun paints the cement orange in frigid wind,
how many deaths will this cold angle cause
As the goat bows and rears
turning away from the city of cheer?
Spring is near,
And the gods will watch the sun,
Watch
As goats walk across Walden Pond,
Through the mists of snow powder
beneath the lake,
to a Vortex of other worlds.

Yes the sun birds will shine
Zenith and the I Ching will sing in June
London and Alaska
shall be revealed in White Nights
As only Dostoevsky could suffer in,
but maybe,
he knew of the goats turn.
For the Buddha's are leaving this world,
"Be not said, be like sun at mid-day"
the Ancients warn us
man and goat-god alike,
we take our leave when we must,
oppositions to Marx,
Mitsubishi commodities,
and the Eclipses of Eternity.

How will I stroke my Prick
As only goat memories fill the must of my mind?
The She-Goat is gone
And our humping rhythms
have spread to Adronoma,
Maybe a warrior in hyperspace will someday see the shine
When I reared my goat from the rear
and was revealed the buckling, rebirth of life,
Return,
No-Self,
And the timeless bump
the hump,
of Bestiality
In the Night.

When the civilizations fall to the dialectic
of Capitalism
And the Karmas of Christ's murder,
Where will my goat be
To fuck the crap out of my nuclear rubble winter,
as my toxic eyes,
watch the sea's die,
And Walden evaporate with Thoreau books,
worn and wrinkled,
cum-stained pages of my goat memories?
What animal will give me solace,
solstice,
and more,
When the goat turns
Away?