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460
Take your violent puppets
and your sacred hearts
and off to hell with you!
I, I of a tribe of well-known
gelding mongrels
I creep about during floggings
I forget the name of beauty
I refuse to obey.
this life of belief
becomes suddenly, strangely,
savage
we are as dogs
hunting weather
presenting ourselves for vivisection
beginning to warm to
the barefoot messenger of evening
461
the features ride the face
don't they?
much is organized but does
not contain much
the fog of age rolls in
featureless, exposing emptiness
weightless
thoughtless
turning in the wind
cloth of time.
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