the mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings
then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.
The last thing he saw was you ***** amid unnaked things,
your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal, a little strolling with the futile purr of blood;your *** squeaked like a billiard-cue chalking itself,as not to make an error, with twists spontaneously methodical. He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses
he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes her left hand upon a mirror.