|Philip Josť Farmer is one of the most talented writers alive - Damon Knight|
The thing that ran and screamed and fell a pace
From me was he whom I had never thought
To see in Hell, where none like him were brought
To flee the blacksih glare of Satan's grade.
He scrambled up and clutched my hand to brace
Himself against what he on Earth had wrought
And now, no matter where he ran, was caught
By it before he had begun to race.
I dropped his hand, for what is there to do
For one whose gift from Satan is a tail
Whose tip is fastened to an angel's head
With fiery lips that shriek, "It is too late to rue
The man you might have been, too late to veil
My face - your face - the horror you would shed!"
Oh, I'd reach beyond the comma of you
To the invisible phrase, the dangling Omega! No use. No act
Of mine or mind denies the ante-cerebellum fact
Of furry you, poised fleetingly, bright flex,
Black reflex, too leaping for me to ink and fix
As period to end what has no period, no, no
End, just quo vadis? Quid nunc? Cui bono?
Myself am quo quid cui -- quit
Of that big black question mark on branch
Of brain only when Death'll crack me, crunch
Me, chattering quo quid cui
We too. No wisdom to utter.
You've beauty, flux, and terror
To tell. So've I. And they're
Very hard to mutter
Through so much chatter and stutter.