Her Telepathic-Station transmits thought-waves
the second-rate, the bored, the disappointed,
and any of us when tired or uneasy,
are tuned to receive.
So, though unlisted in atlas or phone-book,
Her garden is easy to find. In no time
one reaches the gate over which is written
large: MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
Inside it is warm and still like a drowsy
September day, though the leaves show no sign of
turning. All around one notes the usual
pinks and blues and reds,
a shade over-emphasized. The rose-bushes
have no thorns. An invisible orchestra
plays the Great Masters: the technique is flawless,
the rendering schmaltz.
Of Herself no sign. But, just as the pilgrim
is starting to wonder 'Have I been hoaxed by
a myth?', he feels Her hand in his and hears Her
murmuring: At last!
With me, mistaught one, you shall learn the answers.
What is conscience but a nattering fish-wife,
the Tree of Knowledge but the splintered main-mast
of the Ship of Fools?
Consent, you poor alien, to my arms where
sequence is conquered, division abolished:
soon, soon, in the perfect orgasm, you shall, pet,
be one with the All.
She does not brutalize her victims (beasts could
bite or bolt). She simplifies them to flowers,
sessile fatalists who don't mind and only
can talk to themselves.
All but a privileged Few, the elit