oh those awful integrals speak in cockles of cold doom

enough white phosphorus to burn up a roomful of people

came out of her mouth
while she splayed
down there in mud
I have always tried, don't you see
as if oh out there like that they played
on the Whitby sands
some whale had flotted up and cold bespake
like washed up brothers and kamerades
trotting off to stalingrad's cold fucking

oh look here fuck they said and continued
where integers of apparence
oh no oh no
start restart bonnie and every little day

that you don't come
will be a season
cranking the same wire

even the very idea

but by winter this gate no longer

for now, you know

just this

love of wet cathedrals
of the mouth
.
.