With the hard bristle brush
I take to my flesh...

With the hard bristle brush
I take to my flesh...

The wavering councillor
decanted diluted aid...

I dreamt of you again last night.
You’d got ahead and were 6’5...

We are all heir to Sheol’s fumes:
the thousand shocks...

Here, then:
There is pain...

The crucifix
is lodged like a stick in our eyes...

The women cry through day and night,
they bathe in sundry tears...

There is no need to smooth out the terrain-
for who’s heart would bob and burst...

Freedom is a crushed cerebral cortex,
the silencing of human nature...

I’ll easily call a puppy a wolf.
Pain to me is that slight rash...

Nymph of the plaited tresses,
your eyes gleam like garnet honey...