Death of the Anarchic

Not in himself is the way of man.

There is no way; only the wayless way,

the formless for, the plastic negative,

the shapeful to be unshaped,

and shaped shapelessly: the bending

of form and order to a huge

non-conformity. Enormous liberty

that damns and demands for ever t

the unwilling will willing to unwill

and escape into formless chaos,

deliberate fragmentation of any destiny

the government desires, the government designs.

The nerveless hands claw

at the resisting nails:

the flesh hangs free

while the joints twist and dislocate

flanging out in strange distortions.

Anarchy claws upward, fighting,

pressing for breath to live.

Hatred of the over-arching seeks conquest

until the brilliance breaks and the

dead flesh lies limp, the bones

Protruding into the grotesque,

the self flagellant of the distorted

bunched into final agony,

the anguish of the deep falling pit,

the endless vacuity

defeated by its own no end;

ending without being.

- Geoffrey C. Bingham