A Corpse Is Meat Gone Bad. Well

Our Souls, Shamewounded By Our Sins, Cling To Us Yet More, A Woman To Her Lover Clinging, The More The More. She Trusts Me, Her Hand Gentle, The Longlashed Eyes. Now Where The Blue Hell Am I Bringing Her Beyond The Veil? Into The Ineluctable Modality Of The Ineluctable Visuality. She, She, She. What She?

His Soul Swooned Slowly As He Heard The Snow Falling Faintly Through The Universe And Faintly Falling, Like The Descent Of Their Last End, Upon All The Living And The Dead.

In Woman's Womb Word Is Made Flesh But In The Spirit Of The Maker All Flesh That Passes Becomes The Word That Shall Not Pass Away. This Is The Postcreation.

Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

When One Reads These Strange Pages Of One Long Gone One Feels That One Is At One With One Who Once.