Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

I think I am mad sometimes.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.