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Let the hate wash over you, I say to myself,
let it make you a stronger man.
For the choir has melted,
the preacher's face turned to a dull ham
and the crowd dead: all are turned
to the dying of dying things.

It falls dynamite rainbow-like
through a long glass chimney
to blow through undergrounds and peaks
I feel the hairpiece of eternity
refused fall off my head

perishing, perishing body,
unamused by illusion, slyly
fucking a hole in the fabric of the hidden air.
Eternity's terrorist radio shredding all that is fertile,
the land dark for ages
and the emergent poets with axes,
hacking all their fellow humans to pieces for freedom
breathing their essence like season tickets.

I deal with the world like a man reacting to a tragedy.
I myself am a tragedy in my skin and know it.
Because I have nothing to hide of myself, beware,
I have nothing to hide of you whatsoever.
I take the mind from your preciousness
and I set it on fire.
Let you bathe in the fury of your own putrescence.
His genitals cropped, his muscles bulging:
I watch this man in his own hall of hand-mirrors,
encountering all, sympathizing with all,
turning away none.