The ceiling fan turns

in a golden lamp of light.

A thick cat purrs on my lap.

He lives in irritable error

til he settles in and vibrates.

His evil is the wound from which

the laughter of the ages pours.

We need mischief.

Hell's abyss is heaven's risk.

There is no escape from

the stone in the middle

of the head, the stone

in the middle of the head.

Cats love violent acquisition,

they seek out dangerous play.

The engines roar a mile away.

Hills are swollen tongues of land

under tar.  The stars are far.

They're tangled in my nerves.

This tangled web

of horrible connections

is the pain that I deserve.

I'll turn it into a cloak.

It'll turn me into a pound of butter.

In the fields, in the fields

left open by the dying

you can hear the sacred fiends mutter.