When the last stellar-studded gown swept across the whole
bleeding world, I cried. The pearly night ate me up. Marveling,
you ask, What is it like, living in the larval object? I used to know—
the same goes for our sloshing planet. Now, I forget most things.
The darkness is round and white. It has become glorious and full.
It’s remarkable—the way everything glows with the putrid energy
of an oyster mushroom decaying a dead and violated animal.
Long ago, before the end, the pink-grown sky haunted me lengthily
with an old, Western beauty. I was born beneath a sprawling display
of spring-torn clouds. I died the whitest death. Now, incessantly—
I’m bored of being famous; I just want to be a good person. I live in a glade
in an inside-out universe, a spell of sopping moss. Don’t you see?
I have risen from the black smoke of the new Levant, the richest part
where the moon is twice. O, you—you break my thrashing heart.
