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Canto:
  I II III

I

On the cold concrete painted in summer heat
I quivered with my fair skin glowing in the dull noon
and near my callus feet lay a decomposing mass
what seemed like an equine with its rotten erect antlers pointed toward me
soon its bloated belly began to burst with sobbing grubs
I felt my neck strain and swell as the rancid infant insects danced around my toenails
soon the beast's shining melted eye commanded my kneeling
I slunk toward him with his saluting horn nearly penetrating my scalp,
and opened his mouth, his caved gullet seemed absent of any muscle or mucus
In some sort of romance or curiosity I sunk my eye into its maw and saw no light nor color
so I placed my ear against his sagging throat and heard
The sound of your stuttering breath and a trillion teardrops
I leapt in shock out of my hypnotized state
as the bleeding creature began to seize and quake
I fled from its terrible animation, avoiding anything living or dead in fear of its haunting.

II

I remember being in your bed, before I left.
Laying in a pool of sweat
Dreaming of some nonsensical thing
I woke up in a slumbering dizziness
Drunk off of your milky white tears
I saw you, still sleeping in that unfavorable position
Leaving no appendage closed, a careless symbol
In that moment, your body disgusted me
I noticed your protruding bones and swallowed stomach
A corpse-like display, orchestrated by farts and snores
Minimal moments of mourning your beauty flew by
Before presenting you the lonesomeness that you've given me before
I'm slightly saddened by this loss of your tears
But you must be happy, with your appetites appeased
and that I am here. Writing this in the autumn snow with my odored piss

III

The roads are littered with the wasted pigs,
I suppose the farmhouses were too rank?
Plains and forests are mush, polluted with dew and rain
I'd prefer to sleep through this spring
and pass by the soaked sunflowers and swine skulls
Of course, you - my dream; I still taste your salt and milk
and my mind is arrested by the memory of your orgasm
I can only recall, like a tick in the fields, a sound
Your image has become a phantom, ambiguous
abstract - whirling in a wilderness wet of mucus and semen
A shining spirit of shape and color unbound
Untamed by space but slave to time - my time, at least
I doubt your dream will see a day past the season
These boiling, bleeding beasts - the last of my 'fellow man' !
I wonder if the body rots before the brain