There is no hoping for me here in desolate sparks of the
dragons of bark and belt,
as all the captives I released do swing round to pound me into dirt.
I have little proprietive of what was left, I have little feeling
for the dukes of wanting wars.
I can not remember what rose inside,
the night the fragile capsized
and sank into a sphere; wept I did as a river would upon the
approaching horizon.

This creep within sung and sung long, flinching with flame and
stabbing forth in such a way my bleeding took the dawn.
Infernal workings drove as machines, or simmered
brightly without a beam to cast out to the morrow locked and barred.
Dare I say, that I want a dream,
I want a prayer. I want a believing believer’s sight.
Yet, thus far, cracked and withered by nothing
other than cloaked psychosis three,
I have little grasp remaining in these fingers and teeth.

I have little, little words,
that string on like warriors whose stretched
faces have been far gone into darkness.
One, tandem, and thrice in oily ruin I always find myself,
laid out upon my back with the Roman ten fixed over me.
Not much further can it proceed; mark me, splotch me dark.
Mark my words, I’ll choke the living star from out that cavity,
empty of heart,
To find what ire torches me harshly,
and lends me this powder that sustains my salivation.