". . . our language， forged in the dark by  centuries of violent pressure， underground，  out of the stuff of dead life."

    Thirsty and languorous after their long black sleep

    The old gods crooned and shuffled and shook their heads.

    Dry， dry. By railroad they set out

    Across the desert of stars to drink the world

    Our mouths had soaked

    In the strange sentences we made

    While they were asleep： a pollen-tinted

    Slurry of passion and lapsed

    Intention， whose imagined

    Taste made the savage deities hiss and snort.

    In the lightless carriages， a smell of snake

    And coarse fur， glands of lymphless breath

    And ichor， the avid stenches of

    Immortal bodies.

    Their long train clicked and sighed

    Through the gulfs of night between the planets

    And came down through the evening fog

    Of redwood canyons. From the train

    At sunset， fiery warehouse windows

    Along a wharf. Then dusk， a gash of neon：

    Bar. Black pinewoods， a junction crossing， glimpses

    Of sluggish surf among the rocks， a moan

    Of dreamy forgotten divinity calling and fading

    Against the windows of a town. Inside

    The train， a flash

    Of dragonfly wings， an antlered brow.

    Black night again， and then

    After the bridge， a palace on the water：

    The great Refinery——impossible city of lights，

    A million bulbs tracing its turreted

    Boulevards and mazes. The castle of a person

    Pronounced alive， the Corporation： a fictional

    Lord real in law.

    Barbicans and torches

    Along the siding where the engine slows

    At the central tanks， a ward

    Of steel palisades， valved and chandeliered.

    The muttering gods

    Greedily penetrate those bright pavilions——

    Libation of Benzene， Naphthalene， Asphalt，

    Gasoline， Tar： syllables

    Fractioned and cracked from unarticulated

    Crude， the smeared keep of life that fed

    On itself in pitchy darkness when the gods

    Were new——inedible， volatile

    And sublimated afresh to sting

    Our tongues who use it， refined from oil of stone.

    The gods batten on the vats， and drink up

    Lovecries and memorized Chaucer， lines from movies

    And songs hoarded in mortmain： exiles' charms，

    The basal or desperate distillates of breath

    Steeped， brewed and spent

    As though we were their aphids， or their bees，

    That monstered up sweetness for them while they dozed.