219th Chorus

Saints, I give myself up to thee.
Thou hast me. What mayest thou do?
What hast thou? Hast nothing?
Hast illusion. Hast rage, regret,
Hast pain. Pain wont be found
Outside the Monastery only –
       Hast decaying saints like Purushka
       Magnificent Russian-booted bird loving
       Father Zossima under the cross
       In his father cell in Holy Russia
       And Alyosha falls to the ground
       And Weeps, as Rakitin smears.
       Grushenka sits him on her lap
       And lacky daisies him to lull
       And love and loll with her
       And wild he runs home in the night
       Over Charade Chagall fences
                snow-white
       To the pink cow of his father’s ear,
       Which he slits, presenting to Ivan
       As an intellectual courtesy, Dmitri
       Burps, Smerdyakov smirks.
       The Devil giggles in his poorclothes.
Saints, accept me to the drama
of thy faithful desire.
No me? No drama to desire?
No Alyosha, no Russia, no tears?
Good good good good, my saints.
No saints? No no no my saints.
No no? No such thing as no.