abandon all hope ye
and shut up
all our gods, in wayward beauty line,
Sanguinis Domini,
the abbatoir silent autumn
of pusillanimous chatter, toward
the inane, forge of rebirth and redeath:
the violence and the redolent
echo and echo and echo
the fossils and diluvium
the piss of episstemology:
to be drunk till full, and confused
and old, and uninterested in it