Why think these songs irrational
They are no more so than the hive.
In mercury I seek the method of the molten.
I remember mercy in my praise of the chain.
The green apple is red where slapped.
Why should my psalms sicken, or be blasted
Like blackbirds by shotguns from trees.
Why would you bypass being adored by the radio.
For each gift pump the moment.
The herring are numerous
And the Lord's sperm are words,
As am I. I was lost
And sang my broken-down songs in the hell of the hour.
Then in my heart moved an oar,
And I was found by a breeze from a door in the sea of forms
And was rowed to the cherry trees on the shore.
Selah. Selah.
-Psalm 212 by Stan Rice