And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.