Proboscis of blank fire Swans dry in the machinery of water Bless the feathers of the moon Dormition of the tea-rose in the televisic nightmare The scalpel pierces the vein of the flower Acetyline angels drift like carrion in the blustering ring of night The courtyards bellow sick phrases and a child’s doll Hangs from a telephone wire, cut and murdered by The industry of wet skin and perdition The citizens of hell rally a pot of hemlock To be conferred on the absolute kin of Thrasymachus The wanderings are blear and the uncertain lips of Two thousand martyrs kiss the gravel sky in lonely prayer For floods The iron collar unfurls and the tail of Leviathan roams The cunt of the toothless virgin; where are my hours of repentance? Where is the mystery of the shadow in the unmoored continent? Straffed by innumerable gardens, resigned to quiet ghosts I am your sleeve of heroin I am your century of insect I am your herb of daisy-like cyanide The spoor of suicide persists on the bed of your eyelashes