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I am no longer here on earth; I am
A man who slipped away from men; a Man
Who knows less now, and is he happy? Who knows
What his fluid logic teems with nowadays: the
Sorrow never ends: it only deepens, and
This rich life is sadder as it cheapens
In the comedy of Not-Being:
Along the slips and slidings of the mews
The powerful effluvium amuses the few
Who sputter their lives dying against the bars,
Hiding and shying from the awful pining, which
Drives us all down far and young, sidling
High up among the piss of culture,
Making mulch the milk of pearl-tolling,
Bead-telling, chaplet-beading, brow-
Beating and useless queues of cutthroat
Hanging dung gone dreary and sour within
My heart, my apostrophizing heart, dead
At the tips, slipped beyond the margins of
Sense, into a chill and scald fantasy, foolish and
Pertly flirting with the datebook of death;
The Great Comedian snorts and draws siderial breath.
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