oh my poor doomed ass

[Lucky Pierre]

The plainchant blowing through the gloomy valley like
an aflicted widow, continues to mourn the solitary
city. Overtaken amid the narrow defiles. Continues to
grieve, ignoring the gradual illumination, a grief
caught to secret acrostics, gone into captivity. All
her gates are desolate. The eye courses the valley to
its yawning wmbouchure, past a scattering of obscure
excresences with bright tips, courses the dark defile
to its radical, this pinched and woebegone pit,
mourning its uprooted yew, her priests sigh, her
virgins are afflicted. Gravis. Innig. In bitterness, 
yes, con amarezza, she is bitterness. 

Ah! What a sight, this wild terrain cleft violently
end to end and exposed like an open grave! 

Oh woe, her prices are denied a pasture, nature is
convulsed, and a terrible commotion, sindered by
plosives, sounds all about. Angoscioso, and disoerato,
rising and falling intervals, sounds in the tremulous
matinal gloom. 

Between the spreading intrados and the massive thighs,
below the bitter valley, through the filigree of
letters suspended mysteriously in the archway--MONS
VENERIS, now sharp, now difuse__beyond and through all
this can be seen the distant teats, hanging in the
wind, blowing in the dawn wind, oh, therefore she came
down wonderfully, her last end forgotten, heavy teats
ready for milking, their fat nipples swollen with
promise. They sway in the wind, and something is
indeed falling from them, yes, like frozen milk: snow!
Snow is falling, falling from the big teats, snow is
wirling in the bitter wind, under the pale congrugated
belly of the wintry dawn, blowing out of the ANUS and
the VAGINAL CANAL, it is snowing on the city. 

O Lord, behold my affliction! A vast desolation, the
city, the afflicted city, far as the eye can see. 

His hat jammed down upon his ears and scowling brows,
his overcoat lapels turned up to the hat brim, scarf
around his chin, he is all but burried in his winter
habit. Only his eyes stare forth, aglitter with
vexation and the resolution to press on, and below
them his nose, pinched and flared with indignation,
his pink cheeks puffed out, blowing frosty clouds of
breath through chattering beaver teeth. His mouth,
under his mustache, is drawn into a rigid pucker
around his two front teeth; my god, it is cold, what
the fuck am I doing here? His hands are stuffed deep
in his overcaot pockets, and--poking forth from his
thick herringbone wraps like a testy one-eyed
malcontent--his penis ramrod stiff in the morning
wind, glistening with ice crystals, livid at the tip,
batting agressively against the sullen crowds, this
swollen mass of dark bodies too cold for identitites,
struggling through the snow, their senses harrowed,
intent solely keep their brains from freezing, the ir
asses from being dry0humped by the malign D in DEATH. 

Oh my poor doomed ass.  


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