Two seas pursue me: life and death
    two currents which, damn them, are in my heart . . .
I am trying to find in my dog-drunk head
    /second possessive pronoun/
    intelligence – can’t be found. I didn’t petrify anything.
    Lets play the winds
        let’s sweetly play the damned.
What a sensuously-seasoned infant the poem and poor Jesus
    wearing orange stained underwear
        is hung up every year in spring.
Our art: the ego’s most horrible disguise.