One harvest morning young Rube toiled in the field. With his scythe he cleaved the stalks, and with his pitchfork gathered wheat, loading it into
From pillars, futureLumbar staircase, five steps climbTo the pedestal, Diaphragm, where heartAnd lungs drive blood, breath; poisonIn, my passion out. Well of life, againI die,
Unruly sparks know Not with whom they trifle; my True name: Inferno.
Should I believe your Slander, scorn heaped on me? I Witness your weakness.
Death takes us all, some With agonizing slowness, Some quick as a whip
He excoriates His underling with glee, as He fellates himself