When I am no longer the last sigh of the day,
And my pages all scattered emptiness,
The bowls hollowed inside myself
In places
Where fungus grows like angry men
Trapped in the moonless forest, the solitude of themselves
Unbearable in the night, hallucinations of indifferent plagues
Drawn out on medieval mechanisms
Torture and fiendish play, the eroticism of devils
Dancing wood over flesh like dreams, pounding
The air of suffocating geometrical forms, everything
Bizarre a throb of cranial insects eating the dirt that holds
Me together pilled high oblivious of the war of my self,
My impossible staircase never re aching the sky, blood
Of imagery taking me to the secret caves of hoodlum men,
Old and smoking the tea of stolen ashes, the tea of wooden floors
Crevasses of empty might where we are all bandits of ourselves,
Where I cannot but drink the pulse of my tears waiting in the nothingness
Of bodies hungry for the last taste of mountain dawn, the last taste
Of the wanderer high in the clouds above the shadow of his own
Powerless levels of quantum fury, a void that becomes the meaningless sky
Waiting to be swallowed up by God.