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The Battle of Blythe Road While Blake Watches

The trifles of erstwhile class can still explode——
Like that night in 1900, there on Blythe Road,
When the Golden Dawn became an amber dusk,
And all their spells were revealed as dust.
The air was brisk, still the wind,
When the gayest man alive arrived to rescind
The sickly londoners' mandate to throne:
New became the moon, and all light was gone.

Yeats:
Look all and laugh,
For our feeble master’s envoy
Is but a skinny little boy
In a silly mask!

Would that he wouldn’t tarnish the kilt——
Through its opening wafts the gonorrhea
Of a degenerate, who refuses our panacea
Of uprightness and love towards will.

Chorus:
His mask is tufted because he will soon lack hair!
Push him, shove him, kick him down the stairs!

Yeats:
What should he want with our papers?
They have nothing to do with fellatio.
He’s cleary never read Horatio,
Nor cares whether ‘tis Christ or wafer.

——Nor do I… but you must see
I am of obstinance, like Dante or Blake;
You want to be vulgar but lack status or rank,
You unbarroned Byron, you Sade sans Marquis.

Chorus:
He lacks sense, unlike you, who’s earned to put on airs.
Push him, shove him, kick him down the stairs!

Yeats:
How dare you come here, you perverted freak,
Who seeks all our knowledge to turn into jizz?
They’ve shown your type before, that which is
One who says all power but inward is meek.

Harken, last Trinity man; are you aware
That this 20th century will never learn your name
Unless you bear it your prolapsed anus in shame?
Away to oblivion (they won’t have you but there)
And out from our house!… unless you’re prepared
To be pushed, No, shoved… No. Kicked down the stairs!

Crowley:
And you: gross old man,
Who the decrepit 19th century puppets with its hand
Up your bum! What can tell you me?
For I see the future, and you’ll always be
The mere footfall on the path to me.

You’ll be posted on twitter, in vile pretense,
And your stupid moon thing will be blank fired, thus missed.
A vision, you say? Of naught but the past,
For in future all will take dicks up the ass!
You see your low birth and reject such glamor;
Please, allow me to bring down the hammer
To bang through your mind that which will come:
“Do what thou wilt” is the beat of the drum

Thus, you: gross old man
The powers conspired to leave out from the plan.
You will rest on the laurels of a transient state;
You, who will die, too full to await
The entrée following your meager Easter plate.

“An Irish protestant!” They’ll cry, “How queer!
We’ve never seen anything like that around here!”
Meanwhile, they’ll live in a world made by us;
They’ll fuck in the park and fuck on the bus.
To them, you’ll be nothing but an effete who lied,
Who kept among the living MacDonagh and MacBride.
You, on whose corpse they won’t deign to gnaw,
Because “Do what thou wilt” shall be all of the law!

Blake:
Oh, My God! How they fight and bicker
Over enochian nonsense——that wretched Dee
Turned wildfire minds into a mere flicker.
Oh, why in my name must the foolishness be?

‘Twas but a story, a symbol, an image!
Thel is not real! I must’ve gone wrong!
Smite them, oh Lord! They don’t see me in scrimmage!

Jesus:
You’re lucky to be here; get back to our song.

Steiner:
But, what about me? I’m still alive!
I deserve more than them for my name to be known!
Not just poetry, but schools and farms from mine!

Goethe:
And you crucified me on top of the dome.