XXXVI.

In the cave of the king of the mountain,
salmon and trout, sucked-up insalubrious
skies, sleek with vertigo. Here, the infant is
John C, mould and offshoot of a giant nail.

A cruel old wall keeps lamenting the bitter
cold times, and calling back the broom to
do its duty. Rosarito, Rosarito! Shut the
door! The vampire is sleeping now, but

XXXVII.

he may wake up. Sunset, such carelessness.
Daub a cloud, smell blood, then fear spreads
flicking between the flute and the drum.
Death is inviable, but you are not allowed

this privilege. Suffering does not exist,
step after step, the dim roar of London,
the witch-hunting and the struggle. You
have been stabbed, sweet haemorrhaging.