Yes, I too would like my crown of thorns
and one for each thought, red hot, across
my brow, right into my brain, to the frail roots
where sins and forged dreams writhe
within me, through me. I crave it like a fury,
like an ebony bush in flame, like manes
of lightning and flames combed by a savage wind;
and these would be my vain and mystic cravings,
my science of boredom, my beaten affections
of flagellant remorse, my shimmering desires
of murder and madness, my stubborn hates
that with sting and claw it would bite.
And more intimate still, my old death rattles
towards bellies, muffled in heavy fleeces of gold,
my flawed fingers and claustral lips,
my last jolting of nerves and sobs
and deeper, even the carnal rut of my torment,
until finally! crown of my agony
and of my joy, crown of tyranny
seated above my two eyes, my mouth and brain,
dream-crown on my sleepwalker’s brow,
madly transfix me then with your absurdity;
and crown me your farcical long-suffering king.