You die exactly in that attitude of scorn, you filthy parasite of the worthless ordeal. You die looking exactly like that, in all constipated possession of your high degree. You scum on the sunlight, agent of rot in my great sea-faring heart. It is you. It is your wretched judgement of my love affair.
A white butterfly flickers like the end of a home movie, and it gives me words, and with them I can make a world for you to hustle in, a large world, complex and true, where I turn out to be the lover after all, and you turn out to be merely stupid, but forgiven in a hail of seeds.
How can I put you to sleep? What carved stone, what inscription, would keep you down? You hate me because I have no temple. On your fatigue we raise the sign of victory. We inhale deeply the fragrance of your surrender. It is exactly noon. I am the false voice of the armistice. Who waits behind your idiot eyes for the final blow?