Radiant dog on doublecross, and I,
by night, a raven fly. My fear
is that eternity has an alm
that is ordinary to ten thousand
and worn from my strings, my console
of limbs, and I a missing part.
It is the world that's new, not I,
and submarines can shoot the land
from the wheelbarrow of sickly pastorals.
Give me the swamp any day! or the huts
that pave the slave to freedom.
From a small cloud in my ears
the song has leapt the valley
curtained with snow, and for ascendant
harmony the gambler thumbs his cards.
Of all the queens one is a witch
whose curse is that she's held.
The horses roll the stone and trot
after their maturity sweepstakes.
This time the homeliest won't ride
my bet into hasty subtract glue.
The pieces fly and here I lie,
triangle of head and gut and thigh.
Put me on my mount, Tomahawk, and
past the river our cortege will dust
the heavy fur, and peasants' prayers
will touch the smell of holy cadaver.
I will have sun and manly rage,
and Mike Atlas will trim me up
to rip the bier from my brother's
hearse, and avenge me for my loss.
The gallows hurt! and for my scheme
I hang on the bridge's span
where my mother will trust my lips
with tears, the ones I send her now.