Rise up corpse and walk nothing new under the yellow sun, the last of the last of the coins of gold, the light that flakes away, under the layers of time, the lock on the breaking heart. A thread of silk, a thread of lead, a thread of blood after these waves of silence. Signs of love’s black mane, the sky more smooth than your eye, neck twisted in pride. My life behind the scenes, from where I see harvests of death undulate, all those eager hands kneading balls of smoke, heavier than the poles of the universe. Empty heads, bare hearts, perfumed hands. Monkey tentacles aimed at the clouds in the furrows of those grimaces. A straight line stretches taut, a nerve twists, la mer the sea sated. L’amour love, l’amer the bitter smile of death la mort.