---

Blinking with mad gaiety
As the inward voice emerges
With a savage, ungovernable moan
Void the purse
And void the palace
These are the varied displays
Of a worthless culture
On the blood-red soil

Wandering in the gutter
With a jaded voice
Where, vast and minute
The human races boil

He looks upon high
With a glance full of fear
His face bears the marks
Of a constant losing fight
Those suns that rise
Beneath erratic skies

To be vibrating with life
Like a young animal
Drifting in islands of rubbish
There lies within
But the joy that destroys

And the void militant
Sings loud in affirmation
See the silent writing
On that oppressive wall above

Rising and spreading
Like a surge of blood
Like the choking grasp of a snake
That provokes dire visions

Hanging over the abysm
Of existential nausea
No one in his senses
Would trust the universe

His viscera and cells
Have been galvanised
Into an insect-like activity
On the point of breaking through
He is completely unsure
Of himself and his purpose
His silence seems to hold
A threat or criticism

The writhing bodies
And rapt, empty faces
Riding the blast beat
In movement and noise

Waves of hostility
Flow out from their eyes
From the blurred faces
The defunct offspring of dung

The floor shifts under his feet
He stands at the epicentre
Of the vast web of life

And in that moment
He knows the reason for suffering
For fear, sex and death
Indifferent to ideas and sensations

And every single night
The people will be uglier
With an affinity
For profound suffering

On an endless speedup
Into a nightmare vortex
Of mechanical disintegration
And meaningless change
You complain about pains
At which he would only smile
You suffer because of deprivations
Which he would not even feel

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