The arcane pornography of bitter regions burn solemn on your doomsday pages. Baptismal fires ignite in fragmented stages; you always had that minus touch. Stimulated dripping suspects cling to the trophies of their lust, their burning members trailing in the dust. You were never one to flatter, when you could kick them in the crotch.
Your skull is packed with stained sheets and rare botanical exhibits of the widest insularity. Taught to help yourself, but not too much – you flounder now on the shores of reason. Your public decomposition and damaged precocity have burgeoned into insane dimensions.
You have become a spectacle for leering jaws and wagging tongues. You are making manic with the sorry classicists who bought you dinner and stole your luggage. They share their condolences as they rifle your drawers. Still you stand insubordinate in your monomania – awkward in your anaemic droplets; attempting regeneration through your psycho reflex.