I feel like I'm in Hatey, white devils at work
paving a new bespoke voodoo circle of hell,
no Dante, no Virgil, no Beatrice to see twerk
at the end of the fiery rainbow. Tough sell,
the concept of angels amongst us as models
of the straight and narrow path and its promised hope,
for we are as lost and incomplete as GÃ ¶del's
theorem, without mind heroes with whom we'd smoke dope.
It's Easter and I'm a long-lapsed Catholic soul,
but, in my dark heart, Bach's cathedral still plays fugues
and precise figures of certitude. Golden Rule,
sancta simplicitas, HÃ ¤nde auf dem Pfluges.
I've never been more sure that we're alone in this thing,
and yet, there's no ode to joy when nihilists sing.
