Our mortal story is approaching its looming awe-inspiring final,
and the raving Peacock God is tearing out my misguided swollen eyes.
The Purple Androgyne had been an enlightened rough copy of something
more, but the infernal orchestra decided to take aim at their frame.
Your big-nosed hunchbacked Coffin Maker was trying to catch the cruel sun and
the fragile shadow dancing on the murdered omniscient walls in vain.
Your fiery mouth will hurt and itch in my crampy mind till the end of time,
and my weary biblical whisper has been engraved in your dove-like heart.
The livid shivering Old Duffer will collapse to your marble-cold feet,
and his fetid soul will turn to ashes in the furnace of bulky gods.
I shall turn into baby’s vertebra and click against the dusky floor,
but the old cold sound of my fading steps will sting your memory henceforth.