We are all heir to Sheol’s fumes:
the thousand shocks...

There is no sun beyond the fog,
no beacon in the deadened smog...

Those freckled runes he carves
on his wrists...

You are two.
Yes...

I drift
like Last-Birthday’s balloon...

The crucifix
is lodged like a stick in our eyes...

I dropped into to the desperate dogma of a prayer.
Knees buckled on that ancient cathedral floor...

With you there is respect
for the nothing new...

If my breath extends for far too long
I ask you to strangle my mortal song...

The sun was setting.
Circling around...

The mighty sun has seen
and beamed beneath my blunders...

The twelve-inch needle stuck deep,
with my thinning skin sucked around it...