Sob heart, frail man, weak frame
and in the depths regurgitate
foul waters of the mind.
What in this fire is left
save spirit in the mad winds sound?
Hot love, swarthy
cuddling in the nude
passion of blood no more
than animals at rut
the stench of earth to taste.
O heart - seek among the last rose petals
and dust of books decay,
breath in fresh smells
and sing of nakedness
in reeds and sallow bushes.
Astride the tops, crag lifted,
cry aloud for desolation.
Destroy this shuck of life, idea and nation-
leave alone the hill, the sun, the flower
and the tall grass spikelets
rustling in the meadow breeze.