Poor Thing. To Die And Never See

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

I Remember The Stink Of The Liverwurst. How I Was Put On A Platter And Laid Between The Mayonnaise And The Bacon. The Rhythm Of The Refrigerator Had Been Disturbed.

I Am Out Of Practice At Living. You Are As Brave As A Motorcycle.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.

Daylight Is Nobody's Friend. God Comes In Like A Landlord And Flashes On His Brassy Lamp.