...Alas, I am with the walls of cobwebbed heraldery - of ley-lines to dolmen and castles fallen/ No more my stomach grow fat on pork knuckle and mead/ No more I lie with the houris in the harem nextdoor/ O fie on thee, wretch! - you cosh me! This pomegranate has split to the cry of the nightjar/ O Lord! delirium is a harp inside this fractured skull/ I speak feeling of dread: a ribcage, a brazier, my fat that wicks the flames! Me a wraith! does raise the heckles/ Hey ho! Virago! Who did thresh the husk for the grain? toiled so sweet idylls and betrothal, I give to thee?...Amigos! carrion are we, convex on the surface of vultures' eyes/ Look you out - sons,heirs - the rosy-bossom'd come with armoured stings/ For the samurai of insects plot from the nooks and shadows of the canyon's skin...Fie on her! I could have slashed the dewlap of the wizened gammer/ 'Tis not the tillage of a clear mind, but one hell-bent on contempt/ So there the wife is, a most belligerent pedigree: her lace pillow - cradle for a cranium, with snoring rictus, varicose complexion/ And slumped octopus-like, those locks of stinky sargassum, framing the pickled features of a pig...Indeed, there was murder on the turrets of my patience/ So close, the trespassing gleam of my blade/ So easily, de-throat'd, a voice-box, a shuck'd oyster - a gristly morsel for a lame coyote!..