Forged man, degenerate fetus
your disgrace mount I spit on
foam and slime
sticks to you

here now in his triumph where all things falter
stretched out on the spoils that is own hand spread
as a God self-slain on his own strange altar

Bridled by flesh and copper
a cripple idol on blank canvas
who are you

till a last wind breath
upon all this blowing
roll the sea
till the slow sea rise
and the sheer cliff crumble
till terrace and meadow
the deep gulfs drink
till the strength of the waves
of the high tides humble
the fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink

death lies dead

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