this fiction of mine laboured flux in the skull
of mysteries and memories worked by furies
to the wheel is dealt a willing thread
into my masked man´s clasp
he sets my steps unfailing to his pull
and tells me purblindly my flesh is dirt
and mine the shards of faith i tread
(hope is on hold at the scafold)
and within the walls riotous voices call
a thousand and one kabbalahs
each one proposing
direct cause and each one
spousing next one each one imposible
as the previous certain
(here Anguish live from The Cherry Point –
now turned to truths the nerves so harshly keep
i run my yarns along the plank i blindly trip
the fall is free…
(at the trapdoor to serve the lores of a cretin one
bows his head and one places tightens the noose
