A Tree Grows In Hades

There's a sea of super-suns for as far as the eye can see.
The flesh of all humanity is a shrimp lying on a carrot in a bowl of
stew in an infinite banquet of the Gods.
All human literature and history are the dot of an I in a sonnet to an
alien beauty bathing her tentacles in a black swimming hole.
Oh you blinking idiot of a species who would put the ocean on a
spreadsheet if a Tsunami didn't flood your laboratory and replace it
with colossally charismatic lions meditating under the sea!
Will you SEALs hunt the wise great white?
Will you aircraft terriers pick a dog-fight with the lazy fauk wolf of
fate?
Oh you will and also convert the coyotes to capitalism but the oysters
will still sleep in their beds... sleep right through you and wake to
offer their pearls to the next wave of dinosaurs.
And who am I?
A misshapen maniac of monstrously fair visage who lives under a bridge
and lifts a bottle of Courvoisier yesterday to Christ, today to Kant,
and tomorrow to...
Who am I?
An ogre so sensitive I should live in the Taj Mahal, eat only great
works of culinary, be sung to sleep by a choir of Gregorian monks and
each morning reveal my dreams to scholars.
Who am I?
An angel so hardened I would eat infant sushi if I thought it good for
my complexion, bathe in dolphin blood if I thought it good for my
health or chop off my hand if I thought it good for my soul.
Oh, what a brave and ancient world crawling with humanimals who fall in
love, napalm mosques, hang on crosses for the future of the species,
and patiently wait to sow our seeds on the fourth rock from the
sun.